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JANUARY 1957 
35< 



QMdxy 

SCIENCE FICTION 



MORAL 

EQUIVALENT 

By 

KRIS 

NEVILLE 

• 

TRACKING 

DOWN 

THE 

“SEA SERPENT” 
(Part II.) 

By 

WILLY LEY 



The Blazing 
Conclusion 
of 

THE STARS 
MY 

DESTINATION 

By 

ALFRED 

BESTER 



AND OTHER STORIES 





l(;i=0;G=0;Ri4=0iS^,v:O 



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JANUARY, 1957 VOL. 13, NO. 3 

galaxy 

SCIENCE FICTION 

ALL ORIGINAL STORIES • NO REPRINTS! 

CONTENTS 

NOVELETS 

MORAL EQUIVALENT by Kris Neville 6 

BUTTERFLY 9 by Donald Keith 50 

SHORT STORIES 

ALL JACKSON'S CHILDREN by Daniel F. Galouye 30 
THE HAUNTED CORPSE by Frederik Pohl 72 

BOOK-LENGTH SERIAL-Conclusion 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION by Alfred Bester 98 

SCIENCE DEPARTMENT 

FOR YOUR INFORMATION by Willy Ley 87 

Tracking Down the Sea Serpent (Part II) 

FEATURES 

EDITOR'S PAGE by H. L. Gold 4 

GALAXY'S FIVE STAR SHELF by Floyd C. Gale 46 

FORECAST 71 

Cover by EMSH Offering SEASON'S GREETINGS TO OUR READERS 

ROBERT M. GUINN, Publisher H. L. GOLD, Editor 

WILLY LEY, Science Editor 

W. I. VAN DER POEL, Art Director JOAN J. De MARIO* Production Manager 

GALAXY Science Fiction is published monthly by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. Main offices: 
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TREASURER'S REPORT 



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4 



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(Continued on Page 144) 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



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6 



OAIAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




EQUIVAIENT 

By KRIS NEVILLE 

Why shouldn't a culture mimic another right 
down to the last little detail? Because the 
last detail may be just that — the final one! 

Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS 

T he planet Lanit II had 
dwindled to a luminous 
speck. They were in clear 
space now, at Breakoff Point. Be- 
liakoff held the ship in position 
while Kelly set dials for the jump 
into the hyperspatial drift open- 
ing, which deep-space men knew 
as the Slot. 

Beliakoff cracked his bony 
knuckles nervously. “Now, 
Johnny,” he said, “easy this time. 
Real easy. Gentle her into it. She’s 
not a new ship. She resents being 
slammed into the Slot.” 

“She’ll take it,” Kelly said, with 
a boyish grin of almost suicidal 
abandon. 

“Maybe she will, but how about 
us? You sort of creased the Slot 
getting us off Torriang. A little 
closer and—” 

“I was still getting the touch. 




MORAL EQUIVAIENT 



7 




You ought to be glad I’m an in- 
stinctive astrogator.” 

He set the last dial with a rapid 
twirl and reached for the kissoff 
switch. 

“You’re out two decimal 
points,” said Beliakoff, who wor- 
ried about such trifles. “Enough to 
ionize us.” 

“I know, I know,” Kelly grum- 
bled, adjusting the dial. “I was 
just touching it for luck. Here we 
go!” 

He depressed the kissoff switch. 
Beliakoff shut his eyes as the ship 
lurched Slotward, wishing that 
Kyne, their government-inspected, 
college-graduated astrogator was 
still aboard. Kyne had been an ex- 
pert at the job. But then, three 
planets back, he had suddenly 
gone after a native stevedore with 
a micro-edge cleaver, screaming 
that no dirty alien would ever 
marry his daughter. 

Kyne had no daughter. 

Currently he was confined in 
Azolith, awaiting transportation 
Earthside, to a padded little homy 
room in the Spaceman’s Snug 
Port. 

^^TJOW about that?” Kelly 
asked proudly, once the 
ship was locked in hyperspace. 
“Superior intelligence and steel 
nerves do the trick every time.” 

“Poor devil, Kyne,” Beliakoff 
sighed. 

“A paranoid,” Kelly diagnosed. 



“Did he ever tell you about the 
plot to keep him out of the Luna 
Military Academy?” 

“He never talked to me much. 
“That’s because you’re a cold 
distant, unsympathetic type,’ 
Kelly said, with a complacent 
smile. “Me he told evers^thing. He 
applied to Luna every year. Stud- 
ied all the textbooks on military 
organizaton, land tactics, sea tac- 
tics, space strategy, histories of 
warfare. Crammed his cabin with 
that junk. Knew it inside out. 
Fantastic memory!” 

“Why didn’t he get in?” 
“Hemophilia. He couldn’t pass 
the physical. He thought they 
were plotting against him. Still, 
I’m grateful for the chance at a 
little astrogation.” With the barest 
hint of a smile, Kelly said, “I un- 
derstand it’s possible to bring a 
ship sidewise through the Slot at 
Terra.” 

“Please don’t try,” Beliakoff 
begged, shuddering. “I knew we 
should have waited for Kyne’s re- 
placement at Mala.” 

“We’d still be there, with a 
cargo of kvash turning sour.” 

“I was afraid it would sour any- 
how,” Beliakoff said, with a wor- 
rier’s knack for finding trouble. 
“Mala is the slowest loading port 
this side of the Rift. I must admit, 
however, they didn’t do badly this 
time.” 

“Noticed that, did you?” Kelly 
asked. 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“Hm? Did you find a way of 
speeding them up?" 

“Sure. Gave them Kyne's old 
dog-eared books. They’re crazy 
about books. Really hustled for 
them.” 

Beliakoif said nothing for sev- 
eral seconds, but his long, sallow 
face became pale. “You what?” 

“Gave ’em the books. Don’t 
worry,” Kelly said quickly. “Kyne 
gave them to me before they 
hauled him away.” 

“You gave the warfare books 
to the people on Mala?” 

“You mean I shouldn’t have? 
Why not? What’s wrong with 
Mala?” 

“Plenty.” Beliakoff grimly did 
some quick figuring. “It’ll be a 
year, their time, when we can get 
back. Kelly, take us out of hyper- 
space!” 

“Now?” Kelly gasped. “Here?” 

“At once!” 

“But we might come out inside 
a star or — ” 

“That,” Beliakoff said, his voice 
filled with righteousness, “simply 
cannot be helped. We must return 
at once to Mala!” 

G eneral DRAK, Comman- 
der of the Forces of the Em- 
press, Wearer of the Gold Star of 
Mala, sat at his desk in the Su- 
preme Command Post, which had 
recently been converted from a 
hardware store. He was engaged 
in a fiery argument over the tele- 



phone with Nob, the Empress’s 
right-hand man. 

“But damn it all,” General 
Drak shouted, “I must have it! I 
am the Supreme Commander, 
the General of All the Armies of 
the Dictatorship! Doesn’t that 
mean anjdhing?” 

“Not under the circumstances,” 
Nob answered. 

Two soldiers, standing guard in 
the General’s quarters, listened 
interestedly. 

“Think he’ll get it?” one asked. 

“Not a chance,” the other an- 
swered. 

Drak glared them into silence, 
then returned to the argument. 
“Will you please attempt to un- 
derstand my position?” he said 
hoarsely. “You put me in com- 
mand. At my orders, the Armies 
of the Dictatorship move against 
the Allied Democracies. All the 
other generals obey me. Me! Cor- 
rect?” 

“He’s got a point,” one soldier 
said. 

“He’ll never get it,” the other 
replied. 

“Shut up, you two!” Drak 
roared. “Nob, aren’t I right? It’s 
the Earthly way. Nob. Authority 
must be recognized!” 

“I’m sorry,” Nob said. “Ex- 
tremely sorry. Personally, I sym- 
pathize with you. But the Book 
of Terran Rank Equivalents is 
quite specific. Seven shoulder 
stars are the most — the absolute 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



9 



most — that any general can wear. 
I absolutely cannot allow you to 
wear eight.” 

“But you gave Frix seven! And 
he’s just Unit General!” 

“That was before we under- 
stood the rules completely. We 
thought there was no limit to the 
number of stars we could give 
and Frix was sulky. I’m sorry, 
General, you’ll just have to be 
satisfied with seven.” 

“Take one away from Frix, 
then.” 

“Can’t. He’ll resign.” 

“In that case, I resign.” 

“You aren’t allowed to. The 
book, Military Leadership, spe- 
cifically states that a Supreme 
Commander never resigns during 
hostilities. An Earthman would 
find the very thought inconceiv- 
able.” 

“All right!” Drak furiously 
slammed down the telephone. 

The two soldiers exchanged 
winks. 

“At attention, you two,” Drak 
said. “You’re supposed to be 
honor guards. Why can’t you act 
like honor guards?” 

“We haven’t got weapons,” one 
of the soldiers pointed out. 

“Can't be helped. I sent what 
we had to the front.” 

“But we need them here,” the 
soldier said earnestly. “It’s bad 
for morale, us not having weap- 
ons, and morale is vital for vic- 
tory,” 



Drak hated to be lectured, but 
he had to accept textbook truth 
when it was quoted at him. 

“You may be right,” he agreed. 
“I’ll try to ge^ some back.” 

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. 
Everything had happened so 
quickly! 

J UST A week ago. Nob had 
walked into his store and in- 
quired, “Drak, how would you like 
to be a general?” 

“I don’t know,” Drak had con- 
fessed honestly. “What is it and 
why do we need one?” 

“War starting,” Nob said, 
“You’ve heard of war, haven’t 
you? E^rth idea, very Earthly, I’ll*" 
explain later how it works. What 
do you say?” 

“All right. But do you really 
think I’m the right type?” 

“Absolutely. Besides, your hard- 
ware store is perfectly situated for 
the Supreme Command Post.” 

But aside from the location of 
his hardware store, Drak had other 
qualifications for leadership. For 
one thing, he looked like an Earth 
general and this had loomed large 
in Nob’s eyes. Drak was over six 
feet tall, strongly built, solidly 
muscled. His eyes were gray, 
deep-set and fierce; his nose was 
aquiline; his mouth was firm be- 
cause he usually held nails in it 
when he was out on a repair job. 

In his uniform, Drak looked 
every inch a general; as a matter 



10 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



of fact, he looked like several 
generals, for his cap came from 
the Earth-Mars war of ’82, his 
tunic was a relic of the D’eereli 
Campaign, his belt was in the 
style of the Third Empire, his 
pants were a replica of the South- 
ern Star Front, while his shoes 
reminded one of the hectic days 
of the Fanzani Rebellion. 

But at least all his clothes were 
soldiers’ clothes. His honor guard 
had to piece out their uniforms 
with personal articles. They had 
complained bitterly about the in- 
justice of this, and had come close 
to deserting. But Drak, after some 
hasty reading in Smogget’s Lead- 
ership, told them about the Ter- 
ran doctrine of the Privileges of 
Rank. 

In front of him now was a re- 
port from the Allani Battle Front. 
He wasn’t sure what it said, since 
it was coded and he had neglected 
to write down the code. Was it 
ENEMY REPULSED US WITH 
HEAVY LOSSES or should it 
read US REPULSED ENEMY 
WITH HEAVY LOSSES? 

He wished he knew. It made 
quite a difference. 

The door burst open and a 
young corporal rushed in. “Hey, 
General, take a look out the 
window!” 

Drak started to rise, then re- 
considered. Rules were rules. 

“Hey, what?” he demanded. 

“Forgot,” the corporal said. 



“Hey, sir, take a look out the win- 
dow, huh?” 

“Much better.” Drak walked to 
the window and saw, in the dis- 
tance, a mass of ascending black 
smoke. 

“City of Chando,” the corporal 
said proudly. “Boy, we smacked 
it today! Saturation bombing for 
ten hours. They can’t use it for 
anything but a gravel pit now!” 

“Sir,” Drak reminded. 

“Sir. The planes are fueled up 
and waiting. What shall we flatten 
next, huh, sir?” 

“Let me see . . .” General Drak, 
examined a wall map upon which 
the important enemy cities were 
circled in red. There were Alis 
and Dryn, Kys and Mos and 
Dlettre. Drak could think of no 
reason for leveling one more than 
another. After a moment’s 
thought, he pushed a button on 
his desk. 

“Yeah?” asked a voice over the 
loudspeaker. 

“Which one, Ingif?” 

“Kys, of course,” said the 
cracked voice of his old hardware 
store assistant. “Fellow over there 
owes us money and won’t pay 
up.” 

“Thanks, Ingif.” Drak turned to 
the corporal. “Go to it, soldier!” 

“Yes, sir!” 

The corporal hurried out. 

General Drak turned back to 
the reports on his desk, trying 
again to puzzle out what had hap- 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



11 



pened at Allani. Repulsed Us? Us 
Repulsed? How should it read? 

“Oh, well,” Drak said resign- 
edly. “In the long run, I don’t 
suppose it really makes much dif- 
ference.” 

* * * 

Miles away, in no man’s land, 
stood a bunker of reinforced con- 
crete and steel. Within the bunker 
were two men. They sat on op- 
posite sides of a plain wooden 
table and their faces were stern 
and impassive. Beside each man 
was a pad and pencil. Upon each 
pad were marks. 

Upon the table between them 
was a coin. 

“Your toss,” said the man on 
the right. 

The man on the left picked up 
the coin. “Call it.” 

“Heads.” 

It came up heads. 

“Damn,” said the flipper, pass- 
ing the coin across the table and 
standing up. 

The other man smiled faintly, 
but said nothing. 

1^ ELLY reached for the kissoff 
switch, then hesitated. “Look, 
Igor,” he said, “do we have to 
come out now, without charts? It 
gets risky, you know. How can 
we tell what’s out there in normal 
space?” 

“It is a risk we have to take,” 
Beliakoif said stonily. 

“But why? What’s wrong with 



the people of Mala having those 
books? Believe me, there’s noth- 
ing dirty in them.” 

“Look,” Beliakoif said patiently, 
“you know that Mala is a semi- 
restricted planet. Limited trading 
is allowed under control condi- 
tions. No articles are allowed on 
the planet except those on the ap- 
proved list.” 

“Yeah,” Kelly said vaguely. 
“Silly sort of rule.” 

“Not at all. Mala is a mirror 
culture. They consider Earth and 
its ways to be absolute perfec- 
tion. They copy everything of 
Earth’s they can find.” 

“Seems like a good idea. We 
have got a real good culture.” 
“Sure, but we developed into 
it. The Malans simply copy what 
they see, with no underlying tra- 
dition or rationale. Since they 
don’t know why they’re doing any 
particular thing, they can easily 
misinterpret it, warp it into some- 
thing harmful.” 

“They’ll learn,” Kelly said. 

“Of course they will. But in the 
meantime, the results can be 
devastating. They always are 
when a primitive race tries to ape 
the culture of a more advanced 
people. Look at what happened to 
the South Sea Islanders. All they 
picked up was the worst of 
French, British and American cul- 
ture. You hardly see any more 
South Sea Islanders, do you? 
Same with the American Indians, 



12 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



with the Hottentots, and plenty 
of others.” 

“I still think you’re making too 
much of a fuss about it,” Kelly 
said. “All right, I gave them a 
lot of books on warfare and po- 
litical organization. So what? 
What in blazes can they do with 
them?” 

“The Malans,” Beliakoff said 
grimly, “have never had a war.” 

Kelly gulped. “Never?” 

“Never. They’re a completely 
cooperative society. Or were, be- 
fore they started reading those 
warfare books.” 

“But they wouldn’t start a war 
just because they’ve got some 
books on it, and know that Earth 
people do it, and — yeah, I guess 
they would.” Quickly he set the 
dials. “You’re right, buddy. We 
have an absolute moral obliga- 
tion to return and straighten out 
that mess.” 

“I knew you’d see it that way,” 
Beliakoff said approvingly. “And 
there is the additional fact that 
the Galactic Council could hpld 
us responsible for any deaths 
traceable to the books. It could 
mean Ran-hachi Prison for a 
hundred years or so.” 

“Why didn’t you say that in the 
first place?” Kelly flipped the 
kissoff switch. The ship came out 
in normal space. Fortunately, 
there was no sun or planet in its 
path. 

“Hang on,” Kelly said, “we’re 



going where we’re going in a great 
big rushl” 

“I just hope we’ll be in time to 
salvage something,” Beliakoff said, 
watching as their freighter plowed 
its way through the sea of space 
toward the unchanging stars. 

W ITH evident nervousness. 
Nob walked down a long, 
dim corridor toward the imperial 
chambers, carrying a small pack- 
age in both hands. The Prime 
Minister of the Dictatorship was 
a small bald man with a great 
bulging forehead and small, glit- 
tering black eyes, made smaller 
by steel-rimmed spectacles. He 
looked the very incarnation of an 
evil genius, which was why he 
had been chosen as the Power 
Behind the Throne. 

In point of fact, however. Nob 
was a mild, near-sighted, well- 
meaning little man, a lawyer by 
occupation, known throughout 
Mala for his prize rose gardens 
and his collection of Earth stamps. 
In spite of a temperamental han- 
dicap, he didn’t find his new job 
too difficult. The Earth books 
were there and Nob simply inter- 
preted them as literally as pos- 
sible. Whenever a problem came 
up, Nob thought: how would they 
solve it on Earth? Then he would 
do the same, or as near the same 
as possible. 

But dealing with the Empress 
presented problems of a unique 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



13 




nature. Nob couldn’t find a book 
entitled Ways and Means of Pla- 
cating Royalty. If such a book 
were obtainable, Nob would have 
paid any price for it. 

He took a deep breath, knocked 
and opened the door into the 
Royal Chambers. 

Instantly he ducked. A vase 
shattered against the wall behind 
him. Not so good, he thought, cal- 
culating the distance by which it 
had missed him. The Empress 
Jusa’s aim was improving. 

“Nob, you dirty swine!” the 
Empress shrieked. 

“At your service. Majesty,” Nob 
answered, bowing low. 



“Where are the pearls, you in- 
solent dolt?” 

“Here, Majesty,” Nob said, 
handing over the package. “It 
strained the exchequer, buying 
them for you. The Minister of the 
Treasury threatened to desert to 
the enemy. He may still. The peo- 
ple are muttering about extrava- 
gance in high places. But the 
pearls are yours. Majesty.” 

“Of course.” Jusa opened the 
package and looked at the lus- 
trous gems. “Can I keep them?” 
she asked, in a very small voice. 
“Of course not.” 

“I didn’t think so,” Jusa said 
sadly. She had been just another 



14 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




Malan girl, but had been chosen 
as Empress on the basis of her 
looks, which were heartbreakingly 
lovely. It was axiomatic that an 
Empress should be heartbreak- 
ingly lovely. The Malans had 
seen enough Earth films to know 
that. 

But an Empress should also 
be cold, calculating, cruel, as well 
as gracious, headstrong and gen- 
erous to a fault. She should care 
nothing for her people, while, si- 
multaneously, all she cared for 
was the people. She should act in a 
manner calculated to make her 
subjects love her in spite of and 
because of herself. 



J USA was a girl of considerable 
intelligence and she wanted to 
be as Earthly as the next. But the 
contradictions in her role baffled 
her. 

“Can’t I keep them just for a 
little while?” she pleaded, hold- 
ing a single pearl up to the light. 

“It isn’t possible,” Nob said. 
“We need guns, tanks, planes. 
Therefore you sell your jewelry. 
There are many Terran prece- 
dents.” 

“But why did I have to insist 
upon the pearls in the first place?” 
Jusa asked. 

“I explained! As Empress, you 
must be flighty, must possess a 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



15 



whim of iron, must have no re- 
gard for anyone else’s feelings, 
must lust for expensive baubles.” 
“All right,” Jusa said. 

“All right, what?” 

“All right, swine.” 

“That’s better,” Nob said. 
“You’re learning, Jusa, you really 
are. If you could just fluctuate 
your moods more consistently—” 
“I really will try,” promised the 
Empress. “I’ll learn. Nob. You’ll 
be proud of me yet.” 

“Good. Now there are some 
problems of state which you must 
decide upon. Prisoners of war, for 
one thing. We have several pos- 
sible means for disposing of them. 
First, we could — ” 

“You take care of it.” 

“Now, now,” Nob chided. 
“Mustn’t shirk your duty.” 

“I’m not. I am simply being 
arbitrary and dictatorial. You 
solve it, pig. And bring me dia- 
monds.” 

“Yes, Excellency,” Nob said, 
bowing low. “Diamonds. But the 
people — ” 

“I love the people. But to hell 
with them!” she cried, fire in her 
eyes. 

“Fine, fine,” Nob said, and 
bowed his way out of the room. 

Jusa stood for a few moments 
in thought, then picked up a vase 
and shattered it on the floor. She 
made a mental note to order sev- 
eral dozen more. 

Then she flung herself upon the 



royal couch and began to weep 
bitterly. 

She was quite a young Empress 
and she had the feeling of being 
in beyond her depth. The prob- 
lems of the war and of royalty 
had completely ended her social 
life. 

She resented it; any girl would. 

TV OB, meanwhile, left the pal- 
-i- ’ ace and went home in his 
armored car. The car had been 
ordered to protect him against as- 
sassins, who, according to the 
Earth books, aimed a good deal 
of their plots at Prime Ministers. 
Nob could see no reason for this, 
since if he weren’t Prime Minis- 
ter, any one of a thousand men 
could do the job with equal effi- 
ciency. But he supposed it had a 
certain symbolic meaning. 

He reached his home and his 
wife kissed him on the cheek. 
“Hard day at the palace, dear?” 
she asked. 

“Quite hard,” Nob said. “Lots 
of work for after supper.” 

“It just isn’t fair,” complained 
his wife. She was a plump, pleas- 
ant little person and she worried 
continually about her husband’s 
health. “They shouldn’t make you 
work so hard.” 

“But of course they should!” 
said Nob, a little astonished. 
“Don’t you remember what I told 
you? All the books say that during 
a war, a Prime Minister is a har- 



16 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



ried, harassed individual, weighed 
down by the enormous burden of 
state, unable to relax, tense with 
the numerous strains of high 
office.” 

“It isn’t fair,” his wife repeated. 

“No one said it was. But it’s 
extremely Earthlike.” 

His wife shrugged her shoul- 
ders. “Well, of course, if it’s Earth- 
like, it must be right. Come eat 
supper, dear.” 

k FTER eating. Nob attacked 
his mounds of paperwork. But 
soon he was yawning and his eyes 
burned. He turned to his wife, 
who was just finishing the dishes. 

“My dear,” he said, “do you 
suppose you could help me?” 

“Is it proper?” she asked. 

“Oh, absolutely. The books state 
that the Prime Minister’s wife 
tries in every way possible to re- 
lieve her husband of the burden 
of power.” 

“In that case, I’ll be happy to 
try.” She sat down in front of the 
great pile of papers. “But, dear, I 
don’t know anything about these 
matters.” 

“Rely on instinct,” Nob an- 
swered, yawning. “That’s what I 
do.” 

Flattered by the importance of 
her task, she set to work with a 
will. 

Several hours later, she awak- 
ened her husband, who was slum- 
bering on the couch. 



“I’ve got them all finished ex- 
cept these,” she said. “In this one, 
I’m afraid I don’t understand that 
word.” 

Nob glanced at the paper. “Oh, 
propaganda. That means giving 
the people the facts, whether true 
or false. It’s very important in any 
war.” 

“I don’t see why.” 

“It’s obvious. To have a genu- 
ine Earth-style war, you need 
ideological differences. That’s why 
we chose a dictatorship and the 
other continent chose a democ- 
racy. The job of propaganda is to 
keep us different.” 

“I see,” she said dubiously. 
“Well, this other paper is from 
General Heglm of Security. He 
asks what you are doing about the 
spy situation. He says it’s very 
serious.” 

“I had forgotten about that. 
He’s right, it’s reached a crisis 
point.” He put the paper in his 
pocket. “I’m going to take care of 
that personally, first thing in the 
morning.” 

In the last few hours, his wife 
had made no less than eight Ma- 
jor Policy Decisions, twenty Codi- 
fications, eight Unifications, and 
three Clarifications. Nob didn’t 
bother to read them over. He 
trusted his wife’s good judgment 
and common sense. 

He went to bed that night with 
the feeling of a job well done. And 
before he fell asleep, he figured 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



17 



out exactly what he would do 
about the spy situation. 

next morning, Nob’s or- 
ders went out by all means of 
communication. The results were 
gratifyingly swift, since the peo- 
ple of the dictatorship were com- 
pletely behind the war and duti- 
fully loved and hated their 
Empress, in whose name the order 
was signed. 

A typical scene took place in 
the clubcar of the Char-Xil ex- 
press. The occupants of the car, 
twenty-three commuting business- 
men, sealed the doors as soon as 
they received Nob’s order. The 
best-read among them, a sales- 
man by the name of Thrang, was 
elected spokesman for the group. 

“Boys,” said Thrang, “I guess 
I don’t have to tell you an3^hing 
about the importance of this or- 
der. We all know what war is by 
now, don’t we?” 

“We sure do!” 

“War is hell!” 

“The war that the enemy thrust 
on us!” 

“The war to start all wars!” 

“That’s right,” Thrang said. 
“And I guess we’ve all felt the 
pinch since the war started. Eh, 
boys?” 

“I’ve done my part,” said a man 
named Draxil. “When the Prime 
Minister called for a cigarette 
shortage, I dumped twenty car- 
loads of tobacco in the Hunto 



River. Now we got cigarette ra- 
tioning!” 

“That’s the spirit,” Thrang said. 
“I know for a fact that others 
among you have done the same 
with sugar, canned goods, butter, 
meat and a hundred items. Every- 
thing’s rationed now; everyone 
feels the pinch. But, boys, there’s 
still more we have to do. Now a 
spy situation has come up and it 
calls for quick action.” 

“Haven’t we done enough?” 
groaned a clothing-store owner. 

“It’s never enough! In time of 
war. Earth p>eople give till it hurts 
— then give some more! They 
know that no sacrifice is too 
much, that nothing counts but the 
proper prosecution of the war.” 
The clothing-store owner nod- 
ded vehemently. “If it’s Earthly, 
it’s good enough for me. So what 
can we do about this spy situa- 
tion?” 

“That is for us to decide here 
and now,” Thrang said. “Accord- 
ing to the Prime Minister, our 
dictatorship cannot boast a single 
act of espionage or sabotage done 
to it since the beginning of the 
war. The Chief of Security is 
alarmed. It’s his job to keep all 
spies under surveillance. Since 
there are none, his department 
has lost all morale, which, in turn, 
affects the other departments.” 
“Do we really need spies?” 
“They serve a vital purpose,” 
Thrang explained. “All the books 



18 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



agree on this. Spies keep a coun- 
try alert, on its toes, eternally 
vigilant. Through sabotage, they 
cut down on arms production, 
which otherwise would grow ab- 
surdly large, since it has priority 
over everything else. They supply 
Security with subjects for Interro- 
gation, Confession, Brainwashing 
and Re-indoctrination. This in 
turn supplies data for the enemy 
propaganda machine, which in 
turn supplies material for our 
counter-propaganda machine.” 

"ThRAXIL looked awed. “I didn’t 
-■^know it was so complicated.” 

“That’s the beauty of the Earth 
War,” Thrang said. “Stupendous 
yet delicate complications, com- 
pletely interrelated. Leave out 
one seemingly unimportant detail 
and the whole structure col- 
lapses.” 

“Those Terrans!” Draxil said, 
shaking his head in admiration. 

“Now to work. Boys, I’m call- 
ing for volunteers. Who’ll be a 
spy?” 

No one responded. 

“Really now!” said Thrang. 
“That’s no attitude to take. Come 
on, some of you must be harbor- 
ing treasonous thoughts. Don’t be 
ashamed of it. Remember, it takes 
all kinds to make a war.” 

Little Herg, a zipper salesman 
from Xcoth, cleared his throat. “I 
have a cousin who’s Minister of 
War for the Allies.” 



“An excellent motive for sub- 
version!” Thrang cried. 

“I rather thought it was,” the 
zipper salesman said, pleased. 
“Yes, I believe I can handle the 
job.” 

“Splendid!” Thrang said. 

By then, the train had arrived 
at the station. The doors were un- 
sealed, allowing the commuters to 
leave for their jobs. Thrang 
watched the zipper salesman de- 
part, then hurried into the crowd. 
In a moment, he found a tall man 
wearing a slouch hat and dark 
glasses. On his lapel was a silver 
badge which read Secret Police. 

“See that man?” Thrang asked, 
pointing to the zipper salesman. 

“You bet,” the Secret Police- 
man said. 

“He’s a spy! A dirty spy! Quick, 
after him!” 

“He’s being watched,” said the 
Secret Policeman laconically. 

“I just wanted to make sure,” 
Thrang said, and started to walk 
off. 

He felt a heavy hand on his 
shoulder. He turned. The Secret 
Policeman had been joined by 
two tall men in slouch hats and 
dark glasses. They wore badges 
that said Storm Troopers. 

“You’re under arrest,” said the 
Secret Policeman. 

“Why? What have I done?” 

“Not a thing, as far as we 
know,” said a Storm Trooper. 
“Not a single solitary thing. 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



19 



That’s why we’re arresting you.” 

“Arbitrary police powers,” the 
Secret Policeman explained. “Sus- 
pension of search warrants and 
habeas corpus. Invasion of pri- 
vacy. War, you know. Come along 
quietly, sir. You have a special 
and very important part to play 
in the war effort.” 

‘Whafs that?” 

“You have been arbitrarily se- 
lected as Martyr,” said the Secret 
Policeman. 

Head held high, Thrang 
marched proudly to his destiny. 

^I^HE whole of Mala took to 
war with a will. Soon books 
began to appear on the stalls: 
War and You for the masses. The 
Erotic Release of War for the 
elite. The Inherent Will to De- 
stroy for philosophers, and War 
and Civilization for scholars. Vol- 
umes of personal experiences sold 
well. Among them was an ac- 
count of daring sabotage by a for- 
mer zipper salesman, and the dra- 
matic story of the Martyrdom of 
Thrang. 

War eliminated a thousand old 
institutions and unburdened the 
people of the heavy hand of tra- 
dition. War demonstrated clearly 
that everything was as temporary 
as a match-flash except Art and 
Man, because cities, buildings, 
parks, vehicles, hills, museums, 
monuments were as whispers of 
dust after the bombers had gone. 



Among the proletariat, the pre- 
vailing opinion - was voiced by 
Zun, who was quoted as saying at 
a war plant party, “Well, there 
ain’t nothin’ in the stores I can 
buy. But I never made so much 
money in my life!” 

In the imiversities, professors 
boned up on the subject in order 
to fit themselves for Chairs of 
War that were sure to be en- 
dowed. All they had to do was 
wait until the recent crop of war 
profiteers were taxed into becom- 
ing philanthropists, or driven to 
it by the sense of guilt that the 
books assured them they would 
feel. 

Armies grew. Soldiers learned 
to paint, salute, curse, appreciate 
home cooking, play poker, and fit 
themselves in every way for the 
post-war civilian life. They broad- 
ened themselves with travel and 
got a welcome vacation frorn 
home and hearth. 

War, the Malans agreed, was 
certainly one of the cleverest of 
Earth institutions and as educa- 
tional as it was entertaining. 

f OPE,” Beliakoff was sasHlng, 
“you wouldn’t like Ran- 
hachi Prison, not one little bit. It’s 
on Mercury, you know, in the twi- 
light zone. You blister by day and 
you freeze by night. Only two 
men have escaped from Ran- 
hachi in the last hundred years, 
and one of them figured his curve 



30 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



wrong and flipped into Sol.” 
“What about the other one?” 
Kelly asked, perspiring lightly. 

“His gyros fused. He was bound 
straight for the Coal Sack. Take 
him a couple of thousand years to 
get there, at his speed,” Beliakoff 
finished dreamily. “No, Johnny, 
you wouldn’t like Ran-hachi.” 
“Okay, okay,” Kelly said. “The 
death penalty would be better.” 
“They give that only as a 
measure of extreme clemency,” 
Beliakoff said with gloomy Slavic 
satisfaction. 

“Enough! We’ll straighten out 
Mala.” There was more hope than 
conviction in Kelly’s voice. “Thar 
she lies, off to starboard.” 

Mala was a tiny blue and 
brown sphere, suddenly growing 
larger in their screens. 

Their radio blared on the emer- 
gency channel. 

Kelly swore. “That’s the Galac- 
tic patrol boat from Azolith. 
What’s he doing here?” 

“Blockade,” said Beliakoff. 
“Standard practice to quarantine 
a planet at war. We can’t touch 
down legally until the war’s de- 
clared over.” 

“Nuts. We’re going down.” 
Kelly touched the controls and 
the freighter began to descend 
into the interdicted area. 

“Attention, freighter!” the radio 
blasted. “This is the interdictory 
ship Moth. Heave to and identify 
yourself.” 



Beliakoff answered promptly in 
the Propendium language. “Let’s 
see ’em unscramble that,” he said 
to Kelly. They continued their 
descent. 

After a while, a voice from the 
patrol boat said in Propendium, 
“Attention, freighter! You are en- 
tering an interdicted area. Heave 
to at once and prepare to be 
boarded.” 

“I can’t understand your vile 
North Propendium accent,” Belia- 
koff bellowed, in a broad South 
Propendium dialect. “If you peo- 
ple can’t speak a man’s language, 
don’t clutter up the ether with 
your ridiculous chatter. I know 
you long-haul trampers and I’ll be 
damned if I’ll give you any air, 
water, food, or anything else. If 
you can’t stock that stuff like any 
normal, decent—” 

“This area is interdicted,” the 
patrol boat broke in, speaking 
now with a broad South Propen- 
dium accent. 

“Hell,” Beliakoff grumbled. 
“They’ve got themselves a robot 
linguist.” 

under direct orders from the 
patrol boat Moth. Heave to at 
once, freighter, and prepare to be 
boarded and inspected.” 

ELI AKOFF glanced at the 
planet looming large beneath 
them. He gestured at the power 
control to Kelly and said, “Hello! 
Hello! Do you read me? Your 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



21 



message is not coming across. Do 
you read me?” 

“Stop or we’ll fire!” 

Beliakoff nodded. Kelly kicked 
in all the jets and they plum- 
meted toward the surface. With 
his pilot’s sixth sense, Kelly 
changed course abruptly. A blast 
seared past them, sealing a star- 
board tube for good. Then they 
were in the atmosphere, traveling 
too fast, the hull glowing red with 
friction. The heavy cruiser, built 
only for spatial maneuvering, 
broke off its pursuit curve. 

“All right, freighter. This means 
your license. You gotta leave 
sometime.” 

Beliakoff shut off the radio. 
Kelly fired the braking jets and 
began to spiral in for a landing. 

As they circled, Beliakoff saw 
the shattered rubble and- ruin 
where cities had been. He saw 
highways filled with military col- 
umns, and, at the distant edge of 
the horizon, a fleet of military 
planes winging their way to a 
fresh target. 

“What a mess!” he said. Kelly 
nodded glumly. 

They touched down and opened 
the hatches. Already a crowd of 
Malans had gathered. A few art- 
ists had set up their easels and 
were busy painting the freighter, 
not because it was lovely, but be- 
cause it was Terran, which was 
better. 

A Malan stepped forward, grin- 



ning. “Well,” he asked, “what do 
you think of it?” 

“Of what?” 

“Our war, of course. You must 
have noticed!” 

“Oh, yes, we noticed,” Beliakoff 
said. 

“A real intercontinental war 
complete with ideological differ- 
ences,” the man stated proudly. 
“Just like the civilized planets 
have. You must admit it’s Earth- 
like.” 

“Exceedingly Earthlike,” Kelly 
said. “Now take us to whoever’s 
in charge — quick!” 

' I ^HE conference with Nob at 
the Imperial Palace began 
well. The Prime Minister was 
overjoyed that real Earthmen had 
come to witness their war. He 
knew very well that, by Earth 
standards, it was a pretty small 
war. A beginner’s war, really. But 
they were trying. Some day, with 
more know-how, with better 
equipment, they would be able to 
produce a war that would match 
anyone’s. 

“We were hampered from the 
start,” Nob apologized, “by not 
knowing how to produce atomic 
fission.” 

“That must have been confin- 
ing,” Kelly said, and Beliakoff 
winced. 

“It was. Dynamite and nitrogly- 
cerin just don’t have the same 
grandeur and finality. The scale 



22 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



of demolition seems insignificant. 
But if you will come with me, gen- 
tlemen, I have something here 
which may interest you.” 

Nob ushered the Earthmen 
ahead of him so he could copy 
their loose- jointed, rolling walk. 

“Here!” he said, darting ahead 
and opening a door. “Behold!” 
The Earthmen saw, upon an 
ivory pedestal, a small model of 
an atomic bomb. 

“We worked imtil we mastered 
it at last,” Nob said proudly. 
“With any luck, we’ll be in pro- 
duction within the month and us- 
ing them within the year. Now I 
think I can safely say that Mala 
has come of age!” 

Beliakoff said, “No.” 

“No, what?” 

“No atom bombs.” 

“But it’s Earthlike to use 
atomic bombs. Why—” 

“This war has to end at once,” 
Kelly said. 

“You’re joking!” protested Nob, 
looking intently at the Earthmen. 
But he saw at once that they were 
deadly serious. He groaned and 
sat down. 

Nob was faced with a moral 
dilemma of fearful proportions. 
On the one hand, war was a 
typical Terran institution, an ex- 
tremely important one, an insti- 
tution clearly worthy of emula- 
tion by the people of Mala. But 
on the other hand, this Terran 
institution was being refuted, de- 



nied, in fact, by two typical Ter- 
rans. 

The problem was insoluble for 
him. And Nob remembered that, 
when an ultimate crisis is at hand, 
that is the moment for the su- 
preme authority to step in. 

“We must discuss this with the 
Empress,” he said. 

XTE led them to Jusa’s cham- 
bers, knocked and opened 
the door. Half a dozen vases shat- 
tered around them. 

“On your knees, pigs!” Jusa 
shrilled. “You, Nob, have you 
brought the diamonds?” 

“I knew I forgot something,” 

“Forgot them! Then how dare 
you show your face?” Jusa 
stamped her small foot. “And these 
peasants — who are they? I’ve a 
good mind to lock them up, espe- 
cially that grinning red-headed 
ape.” 

Kelly’s grin became a trifle 
strained. 

“These are Earthmen, Your 
Majesty,” Nob said. “Genuine 
Earthmen!” 

“Really?” breathed Jusa. 

“Really,” said Nob. 

“Oh, golly,” Jusa said, losing all 
her painfully acquired imperial 
pose and becoming a frightened, 
albeit lovely, young girl. 

“Your Majesty—” Beliakoff be- 
gan. 

“Just call me Jusa. My gosh! 
Real Earthmen! I never met a 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



23 



real Earthman before. I wish you 
had let me know in advance. My 
hair — ” 

“Is beautiful, just like yourself,” 
Kelly said. 

“I’m so glad. I think your hair 
is beautiful, too.” 

Kelly turned brick-red. “You’re 
not supposed to say that, you 
know.” 

“I didn’t know,” Jusa said. “But 
I’m willing to learn. What should 
I have—” 

“Excuse me,” Beliakoff broke 
in sourly. “Your Majesty, we’ve 
come to ask you to stop the war.” 

“You don’t mean it!” Jusa 
turned bewilderedly to Kelly. 

“Have to do it, honey,” Kelly 
said softly. “You folks just aren’t 
ready for a war yet.” 

Jusa’s eyes flashed and she be- 
gan to regain a little of her impe- 
rial pose. “But of course we are! 
Look at what we’ve done. Go over 
our battlefields, look at our cities, 
interrogate our refugees. You’ll 
find that everything has been 
done in strict accordance with the 
rules. We’re as ready for war as 
anyone!” 

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to stop 
it,” Beliakoff said, and Kelly nod- 
ded his agreement. 

Jusa gave Nob a beseeching 
look, but the Prime Minister 
averted his eyes. The dilemma 
was there again, enormous, insur- 
mountable, and squarely on Jusa’s 
shoulders. To stop the war now 



would be Unearthlike; to refuse 
the Earthmen was unthinkable. 

“I just don’t know,” Jusa said. 
She looked at Kelly, who wore 
the guilty expression of a man 
caught murdering a fawn. Then 
she burst into tears and collapsed 
on a couch. 

TV OB and the Earthmen looked 
’ at each other, made several 
helpless gestures, and left. 

“What now?” Beliakoff asked, 
in the corridor. “Do you think 
she’ll stop the war?” 

Nob shrugged his shoulders. 
“Who knows? It’s a problem with- 
out a solution.” 

“But she has to make up her 
mind,” Kelly said. “That’s one of 
the duties of authority.” 

“The Empress is aware of that. 
And she will make up her mind, 
though it could take a year or 
more. Unless she fails completely 
under the strain.” 

“Poor kid,” Kelly said. “She 
needs a man to help her out.” 
“Indeed she does,” Nob agreed 
hastily. “A strong man, a wise 
man, a man who could guide her 
and be as adviser and husband to 
her.” 

Kelly blinked, then laughed 
nervously. “Don’t look at me! I 
mean she’s a cute kid, nice girl, 
make some man a wonderful wife, 
but I’m not the marrying kind, 
you know what I mean?” 

“Johnny,” said Beliakoff, “I’d 



34 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



like to have a serious talk with 
you.” 

Nob led them to a vacant room 
and left discreetly. 

“I won’t do it!” Kelly declared 
bluntly. 

“You have to,” Beliakoff said. 
“You got us into this mess. Now 
you can marry us out.” 

“No!” 

“She’d make a wonderful wife,” 
Beliakoff quoted Kelly’s words 
back at him. “Docile, pretty, but 
spirited. What more could you 
ask?” 

“Freedom of choice,” Kelly said 
grimly. 

“That’s for adolescents.” 

“Speaking.” 

“She’ll never be able to make 
up her mind to stop the war un- 
less you marry her. Until the war 
ends, that interdictory ship is go- 
ing to sit in orbit, waiting for us. 
You haven’t an3^hing to lose,” 
Beliakoff added. 

“I haven’t?” 

“Not a thing. It’s a big galaxy 
and our freighter is always wait- 
ing.” 

“That’s true . . Kelly ad- 
mitted. 

Ten minutes later, Beliakoff 
dragged him into the corridor. 
They were joined by Nob, who 
ushered them back to the Em- 
press’s chambers. 

“It’s okay by me if it’s okay by 
you, kid,” Kelly blurted out, in a 
tone that made Beliakoff shudder 



and made Nob smile in outright 
hero-worship. 

“What is all right?” Jusa asked. 

“Marriage,” Kelly said. “What 
d’ya say?” 

Jusa studied his face for sev- 
eral seconds. “But do you love 
me?” 

“Give it time, kid! Give it 
time!” 

Jusa must have seen something 
in his expression, something be- 
hind the embarrassment and an- 
ger. Very softly she said, “I will 
be most happy to marry you.” 

TT WAS a double-ring cere- 
mony and authentically Ter- 
ran. Beliakoff produced a Bible 
from the freighter and the ancient 
words of the Earth ceremony 
were read. When it was over, 
Kelly, grinning, perspiring, nerv- 
ously rubbing his hands together, 
turned to his bride. 

“Now stop the war, honey.” 

“Yes, dear,” Jusa said dutifully. 
She heaved a great sigh. 

“What’s wrong?” Kelly asked. 

“I just tremble to think of our 
cities being bombed out of exist- 
ence and us not able to do any- 
thing about it because we’ve 
stopped fighting.” 

“What are you talking about? 
If we stop fighting—” 

“They won’t!” she said. “Why 
should they? It’s Earthlike to con- 
tinue conquering, and if we quit 
fighting, there’ll be nothing to 



MORAL EQUIVALENT 



25 



stop them from conquering us 
completely.” 

“Nob!” Kelly shouted. “Igor! 
What can we do about this?” 

Nob said, “There would appear 
to be only one certain solution. I 
can arrange a meeting for you—” 
he turned to Beliakoif — “with 
Lanvi, the President of the Al- 
lies.” 

“What would I say to him?” 
asked Beliakoff. 

“To her,” Nob corrected. “You 
can say, I suppose, the same sort 
of thing your friend said.” 

Beliakoff, ashy pale, started to 
back away. Kelly caught him in 
one meaty fist. “Okay, Mr. Fixer. 
Your duty is plain. Marry us out 
of trouble.” 

“But I’ve got a girl friend in 
Minsk—” 

“She forgot you years ago. Stop 
squirming, buddy.” 

“What does she look like?” Be- 
liakoff queried in apprehension. 

“Very pretty,” Nob said. 

URING the double-ring cere- 
mony, Beliakoff peered at his 
bride with cautious approval. 
Lanvi was indeed a pretty girl 
and she seemed to possess the 
Malan virtues of obedience, pa- 
tience and fire. 

As soon as the final words were 
spoken, the war was declared offi- 
cially over. Peace, an authentic 
Earth custom, was proclaimed. 

“Now the real work begins,” 



Beliakoff said. “First, we’ll need a 
list of the casualties.” 

“The what?” Nob asked. 

“Casualties.” 

“I’m not sure I understand,” 
said the Prime Minister. 

“Casualties! The number of 
people killed in the warfare.” 

“Now wait a moment,” Nob 
said, his voice trembling. “Do I 
understand you correctly? Are 
you trying to tell me that civi- 
lized people kill people in their 
wars? Do you mean that they 
leave people in the cities they 
bomb?" 

Kelly looked at Beliakoff. Be- 
liakoff looked at Kelly. 

“Lord, Lord,” murmured Kelly. 

Beliakoff merely gulped. 

“Is it possible?” asked Nob. 
“Do civilized people really—” 

“Of course not,” said Beliakoff. 

“Never,” Kelly said. 

Nob pursed his lips. “I’ve been 
wanting to ask a real authority, a 
genuine Earthman, some ques- 
tions on the subject. Our texts 
were by no means complete and 
some parts we couldn’t under- 
stand at all. Like the matter of 
determining victories. That’s 
something we couldn’t figure out. 
We decided you must use a com- 
plicated system of umpires. It 
was too much for us, so we built 
a bunker in no man’s land and put 
a man from each side in it. They 
tossed coins to determine whose 
turn it was. The winning side 



26 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



would bomb an enemy city. After 
the occupants had been evacu- 
ated, of course.” 

“Of course,” said Beliakoff. 

“It worked out rather well with 
the coins,” Nob said. “Law of 
averages, in fact.” 

“Substantially our system,” said 
Kelly. 

“Just the way we do it,” Belia- 
koff added. 

“A few more questions, if you 
please,” Nob said. “Jusa, would 
you bring in the big War Ency- 
clopedia?" 

J USA and Lanvi had been gos- 
siping on the other side of the 
room. They hurried out and re- 
turned with the great book. 

“Now here,” Nob said, opening 
the volume, “it seems to imply — ” 
“Wait,” Beliakoff broke in. He 
took the book from Nob’s hands 
and flipped through it rapidly, 
then turned to Kelly. In a whis- 
per, he said in Propendium, “It 
looks as though Kyne blotted out 
all references to killing.” 

“Sure!” exclaimed Kelly, bright- 
ening. “I told you he was a hemo- 
philiac— a bleeder. Naturally, he’d 
cut out every single mention of 
bloodshed!” 

“This point—” Nob began. 
“Later,” Beliakoff said. “Right 
now, we’d like to get a few articles 
from our spaceship.” He winked 
at Kelly, who winked back. “It 
won’t take a moment and then 



we’ll be only too happy to—” 

“Oh, dear,” said Nob. “You 
mean you wanted the spaceship?” 

“What?” 

“Well, I assumed that you'd 
have no further use for it. Metal 
is hard to get nowadays and it 
seemed only proper to erect he- 
roic statues to both of you, the 
men who brought the institution 
of peace to Mala. Did I do some- 
thing wrong?” 

“Not at all, not at all,” Kelly 
said. “Oh, not at all. Perfectly de- 
lighted. Not at — ” 

“Johnny!” said Beliakoff. 

“Sorry,” Kelly apologized, a 
broken man. 

The brides stepped forward to 
claim their husbands. 

Peace and prosperity came to 
Mala, under the deft guidance of 
their Terran leaders. In time, 
spaceships arrived and departed, 
but neither man showed any par- 
ticular desire to board one, for 
their wives — docile, patient, yet 
fiery— proved more appealing than 
the lonely far reaches of space. 

Beliakoff sometimes pondered 
the opportune melting down of 
ther freighter. He was never able 
to discover who had signed the or- 
der. But all Mala knew the saying, 
“An Earthman is easy to catch, 
but hard to hold.” He wondered 
whether that had been the true 
reason behind the order to scrap 
the ship. 

By this time, of course, he 



28 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



didn’t really care; if his wife or 
Kelly’s had been responsible, it 
was all the more reason to feel 
appreciated. 

1YTOB knew the answer, but he 
’ had other things on his mind. 
He lay awake, restless, until his 
wife asked worriedly what was 
wrong. 

“I’ve been wondering,” he said. 
“Those war books that the Earth- 
men had us turn in — I never did 
understand why all those dele- 
tions were made. You know, the 
ones that made us figure out a 
way of deciding which side won.” 
“But the Earthmen said they 
used the very same system,” she 
reminded him. “And they 
wouldn’t lie, would they?” 

“They would, if it was for oxir 
good. That’s what is known as 
diplomacy, dear. Statesmanship. 
Or politics. Interchangeable 
terms.” 



She looked impressed. “Oh. 
And?” 

“I’ve tried to question the crews 
of ships that land here. The an- 
swers are so evasive that I can’t 
help thinking — ” 

“Yes, dear?” she prompted. 

“— that civilized people actually 
kill each other in wars.” 

She turned a shocked face to- 
ward him. “How can you think 
such a thing? What would be the 
advantage?” 

“Advantage?” he repeated. 
Then his expression cleared and 
he fell back on his pillow, com- 
pletely relaxed. “I hadn’t thought 
of that, dear. None, of course. It 
would really be too much, 
wouldn’t it?” 

“No question of it, dear,” she 
said. “Now that that’s settled, can 
you go to sleep?” 

There was no answer. He was 
already snoring peacefully. 

— KRIS NEVILLE 



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MORAL EQUIVALENT 



29 



All Jackson’s Children 

By DANIEL F. GALOUYE 

Their chances hung literally 
on a prayer . . . which they had 
to answer all by themselves! 



A ngus McINTOSH vigor- 
ously scuffed the tar- 
nished nameplate on the 
wrecked cargo carrier. Then he 
stepped back and squinted under 
shaggy gray eyebrows. 

Letter by letter, number by 
number, he coaxed out the desig- 
nation on the crumpled bow of 
the spacer in the vine-matted 
gorge: “RT . . . 3070 . . . VG-II.” 
His lean frame tensed with con- 
cern as he turned to stare soberly 
at the other. “A Vegan robot 
trader!” 



Bruce Drummond grirmed. “Are 
we lucky! Clunkers are worth 
money — in any condition.” 
Angus snorted impatiently. 
“Let’s get out of here, quick.” 
“Get out?” the stocky Drum- 
mond repeated incredulously as 
he ran thick-set fingers over the 
black stubble on his cheek. “Ain’t 
we going to salvage the climkers? 
The book says they’re ours after 
fifty years.” 

“The hold’s empty. There’s no 
cargo.” 

“There was when it landed. 



Illustrated by FINLAY 



30 



GAIAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



Look at the angle of incidence on 
those fins.” 

“Exactly.” Frowning, Angus 
shifted his holster around on his 
hip and strode back toward the 
plain. “Ever hear of a frustrated 
compulsion?” 

rkRUMMOND, following hesi- 
tantly, shook his head. 

“Those clunkers have to satisfy 
a basic behavior circuit,” McIn- 
tosh explained as he hastened his 
step. “We don’t know what the 
compulsion of this bunch is. Sup- 
pose— well, suppose they have a 
chiropractic function. Row’d you 
like to be the first person to show 
up after they’ve been frustrated 
for a hundred years?” 

“Oh,” Drummond said compre- 
hendingly, stumbling to keep 
pace. 

Angus McIntosh brushed a 
mass of tendrils aside and stepped 
out on the plain. “We’ll report it 
and let them send in a deactiva- 
tion crew. That way, at least, we’ll 
get fifty per cent of salvage and 
no danger.” 

“Even that ain’t bad — just for 
following an SOS a hundred light- 
years. Taking an uncharted route 
and picking up that signal sure 
paid off like—” 

Drummond gagged on his words 
as he gripped Angus’s arm and 
pointed. 

Their ship was a shining oval, 
bobbing and weaving on a sea of 



silver that surged across the plain 
toward a cliff on the left. 

“Clunkers!” Drummond gasped. 
“Hundreds of ’em — making off 
with our boat!” 

He unholstered his weapon and 
fired. 

Angus struck his wrist sharply. 
“Why don’t you just nm out wav- 
ing your arms? We don’t have 
enough firepower to get more 
than eight or ten of them.” 

But the warning was too late. 
Already the tide had washed 
away from the ship and was surg- 
ing toward the gorge. 

There was a noise behind them 
and Angus spun around. Ten 
feet away stood a robot with the 
designation RA-204 on his breast- 
plate. 

“Welcome, O Jackson,” the 
clunker said reverently. 

Then he hinged forward on his 
hip joints until his head almost 
touched the ground. The gesture 
was a clockwork salaam. 

lYlcINTCSH’S thin legs dan- 
gled in front of 204’s breast- 
plate and his ankles were secure 
in the grip of metal fingers as he 
rode the robot’s shoulders. 

RA-76 strode alongside, carry- 
ing a squirming and swearing 
Drummond. Around them, the 
shining horde marched along nois- 
ily. 

“He has come!” cried one. 

“Jackson has come!” chanted 



All JACKSON'S CHIIDREN 



31 



the others of the shining horde. 

“He will show ns the way!” 
shouted RA-204. 

Drummond kicked, but 76 only 
held his legs more firmly. Furious, 
Drummond reached for his gun. 

“That’s using your head,” Angus 
said sarcastically. “Agitate them. 
Then we’ll never get out of here.” 

Drummond let the weapon slip 
back into its holster. “What did 
we get into — a nest of fanatics? 
Who’s Jackson?” 

Angus helplessly shrugged his 
bony shoulders. 

The procession filtered through 
a narrow woods and broke out on 
another plain, headed for the 
nearby cliff. 

Angus leaned forward. “Put me 
down, 204.” 

“Thou art Jackson,” said the ro- 
bot solemnly. “And Thou art test- 
ing me to see whether I would so 
easily abandon my Supervisor.” 

“Not testing,” Angxxs said. “Just 
asking. Come on, how about it?” 

“Praise Jackson!” 204 cried. 

“Jackson! Jackson!” intoned the 
throng. 

Drummond leaned an elbow on 
76’s skull plate and disgustedly 
cupped his chin in his hand. 
“What if they are chiropractor ro- 
bots?” 

“We’ll probably need one after 
this ride,” Angus said uncom- 
fortably. 

“Not like we’ll need a way to 
get back to the ship and cut off 



those converters before they over- 
charge.” 

“Slow charge?” Angus asked be- 
tween grunts timed with 204’s 
stride. 

“Hell, no. I didn’t think we’d be 
here more than a couple of hours. 
By tomorrow at this time, there’ll 
be a crater out there big enough 
to bury the Capellan fleet.” 

“Great,” said Angus. “That 
gives us another thing to worry 
about.” 

The robots fell into two groups 
as they neared a cave in the cliff. 

“Jackson is my Supervisor!” 
chanted the ones on the right. 

“I shall not rust!” answered 
those on the left. 

“He maketh me to adjust my 
joint tension!” cried the first 
group. 

“Oh, brother,” said Drummond. 

“Sounds like a psalm,” sug- 
gested Angus. 

“You ought to know. .You al- 
ways got your nose in that Bible.” 

“Notice anything peculiar about 
them?” 

“Very funny,” sneered Drum- 
mond at the question. 

“No, I’m serious.” 

“They bounce the daylights 
out of you when they walk,” 
Drummond grumbled. 

“No. Their finish. It’s shiny — 
like they were fresh out of the 
factory — not like they’ve been 
marooned here for a hundred 
years.” 



32 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




ALL JACKSON'S CHILDREN 



33 



RUMMOND scratched his 
chin. “Maybe their compul- 
sion is metal polishing.” 

“Not with the kind of fingers 
they have.” 

Angus indicated the hand that 
held his ankle. Three digits were 
wrenches of various sizes. The in- 
dex finger was a screwdriver. The 
thumb was a Stillson wrench. The 
thumb on the other hand was a 
disclike appendage. 

Drummond hunched over. “76, 
what’s your function?” 

The robot looked up. “To serve 
Jackson.” 

“You’re a big help,” said Drum- 
mond. 

“Why dost thou tempt us, 
O Jackson?” asked RA-204. 
“Wouldst Thou test our beliefs?” 

“We’re no gods,” Angus de- 
clared as the robot drew up be- 
fore the cave. 

“Thou art Jackson!” insisted 
204. 

Drummond and McIntosh were 
hoisted to a ledge beside the 
mouth of the cave. The robots 
backed off, forming a half circle, 
and bowed in obeisance. 

Angus ran a hand helplessly 
through his sparse gray hair. 
“Would you say there are four 
hundred of them?” 

“At least.” Drummond surveyed 
the expanse of metal bodies. “You 
know, maybe they don’t have a 
function.” 

“Impossible. Hasn’t been a 



clunker in five hundred years 
without a primary compulsion.” 
“Think they forgot theirs?” 
“Can’t. They may forget how to 
put it in words, but the compul- 
sion is good for as long as their 
primary banks are intact. That’s 
not what’s worrying me, though.” 
“No?” 

“Religious robots! There can’t 
be any such brand. Yet here they 
are.” 

Drummond studied them si- 
lently. 

“Before there can be theologi- 
cal beliefs,” McIntosh went on, 
“there has to be some sort of foun- 
dation — the mystery of origin, the 
fear of death, the concept of the 
hereafter. Clunkers know they 
come from a factory. They know 
that when they’re finally disas- 
sembled, they’ll be lifeless scrap 
metal.” 

Drummond spat disdainfully. 
“One thing’s for sure — this pack 
thinks we’re God Almighty.” 
“Jackson Almighty,” Angus cor- 
rected somberly. 

“Well, God or Jackson, we’d 
better get back to the ship or this 
is going to be a long visitation.” 
Drummond faced the almost 
prostrate robots and made a 
megaphone of his hands. “All 
right, you guys! How’s about 
knocking it off?” 

Slowly, the robots reared erect, 
waiting. 

“Take us back to our ship!” 



34 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



RA-204 stepped forward. “Again 
Thou art testing us, O Jackson.” 

A ngus spread his arms im- 
ploringly. “Look, fellows. 
We’re men. We’re—” 

“Thou art our Supervisor!” the 
throng roared. 

“One of you is Jackson,” ex- 
plained 204. “The other is a Di- 
vine Test. We must learn which is 
the True Supervisor.” 

“You’re not being tested!” Mc- 
Intosh insisted. 

“Our beliefs are firm, O Jack- 
son!” cried a hundred metallic 
voices. 

“Thou are the Supervisor!” de- 
clared 204 resolutely. 

“For God’s sake,” urged Drum- 
mond, “tell ’em you’re their Jack- 
son and then lay down the law.” 
“No. Can’t do it that way.” 
“Why not? Unfair advantage, I 
suppose?” There was a cutting 
edge on the yoimger man’s words. 

Angus stared thoughtfully at 
the robots. “If we only knew how 
they forgot their origin, how they 
got religion, we might find a way 
to get through to them.” 

Drummond laughed contemptu- 
ously. "You figure it out. I’m go- 
ing to play Jackson and get back 
to the ship.” He turned toward 
the robots. 

But McIntosh caught his arm. 
“Let me try something else first.” 
He faced the horde below. “Who 
made you?” 

AIL JACKSON'S CHILDREN 



“Thou hast, O Supervisor!” the 
robots chanted like a gleeful Sun- 
day school class. 

“And Thou hast put us on this 
world and robot begot robot un- 
til we were as we are today,” 
added 204 solemnly. 

Drummond slapped the heel of 
his hand against his forehead. 
“Now they think they’ve got a sex 
function!” 

Angus’s shoulders fell dismally. 
“Maybe if we try to figure out 
their designation. They’re all RAs 
— whatever the A stands for.” 

There was a hollow rumbling 
in the cave that grew in volume 
until the cliff shook. Then a sec- 
ond group of robots emerged and 
fanned out to encircle the ledge, 

“Hell,” said Drummond in con- 
sternation. “There’s twice as many 
as we figured!” 

“Thought there’d be more,” 
Angus admitted. “That ship was 
big enough to hold a thousand 
clunkers. And they didn’t waste 
space in those days.” 

The newcomers fell prostrate 
alongside the others. 

^ I ■' HE planet’s single satellite 
hung like a lost gem over the 
low mountains east of the plain. 
It washed the cliff with a cloak of 
effulgence and bathed the forbid- 
den ship in an aura of gleaming 
silver. 

Below the ledge, the reverent 
robots wavered occasionally and 

35 



highlights of coruscation played 
capriciously across their plates. 
Their whispered invocations were 
a steady drone, like the soft touch 
of the wind. 

“Quit it!” Drummond yelled 
angrily. “Break it up! Go home!” 

Angus sat with his head against 
the cliff, face tilted up. “That 
didn’t help any.” 

“When are they going to give 
up?” 

McIntosh glanced abstractedly 
at the horde. “How long would 
we keep it up if our God appeared 
among us?” 

Drummond swore. “Damned if 
you haven’t been reading the 
print off that Bible!” 

“What do you suppose hap- 
pened,” Angus went on heedlessly, 
“to make them more than clunk- 
ers— to make them grope for the 
basic truths?” 

Drummond spat disgustedly in 
answer. 

“Civilization goes on for a hun- 
dred years,” Angus said as he 
leaned back and closed his eyes, 
“spreading across a hunk of the 
Galaxy, carrying along its knowl- 
edge and religious convictions. 
And all the while, there’s this lit- 
tle lost island of mimic beliefs — 
so much like our own creed, ex- 
cept that their god is called Jack- 
son.” 

Drummond rose and paced. 
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time 
to set them straight, if we’re still 

36 



sitting on this shelf eleven hours 
from now.” 

“Maybe that’s what it’ll take — 
bringing them step by step 
through theology.” 

“Overnight?” 

No, not overnight, Angus real- 
ized. It would take months to 
pound in new convictions. 

Drummond slipped down from 
the ledge. “Here goes nothing.” 

Interestedly, Angus folded his 
arms and watched the other 
square his shoulders and march 
off confidently through the ranks 
of robots toward the ship in the 
distance. 

For a moment, it seemed he 
would succeed. But two of the 
RAs suddenly reared erect and 
seized him by the arms. They 
bore him on their shoulders and 
deposited him back on the ridge 
beside McIntosh. 

“Warm tonight,” Driunmond 
observed bitterly, glancing up at 
the sky. 

“Sure is,” Angus agreed, his 
voice calm. “Wouldn’t be sur- 
prised if we got some rain to- 
morrow.” 

r\ RUMMOND flipped another 
pebble and it pinged down 
on a metal back. “Seven out of 
thirteen.” 

“Getting good.” 

“Look, let’s tell ’em we’re their 
Supervisor and end this marathon 
worship.” 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“Which one of us is going to 
play the divine role?” 

“What difference does it make?” 
Angus shrugged and his tired 
eyes stared off into the darkness. 
“One of us is— Jackson. The other 
is an impostor, brought here to 
test their faith. When they find 
out which is which, what are they 
going to do to the impostor?” 
Drummond looked startled. “I 
see what you mean.” 

The miniature moon had 
wheeled its way to the zenith and 
now the first gray tinge of dawn 
silhouetted the peaks of the 
mountain range. 

Angus rose and stretched. 
“We’ve got to find out what their 
function is.” 

“Why?” 

“It looks like religion is their 
only interest. But maybe that’s 
because they’re completely frus- 
trated in their basic compulsion. 
If we could discover their func- 
tion, maybe we could focus their 
attention back on it.” 

“RA,” Drummond mumbled 
puzzledly. “Robot agriculturist?” 

A NGUS shook his head. “They 
wouldn’t be frustrated — not 
with a whole planet to farm. Be- 
sides, they’d be equipped with 
agricultural implements instead 
of wrenches.” 

Drummond got up suddenly. 
“You figure it out. I have some- 
thing else to try.” 



Angus followed him along the 
ledge until they reached the 
mouth of the cave. 

“What are you going to do?” 

Drummond hitched his trous- 
ers. “The way we’re ringed in 
here, it’s a cinch we won’t get past 
’em in the six hours we have left.” 

“So you’re going to make off 
through the cave?” 

The younger man nodded. 
“They might take off after me. 
That’ll give you a chance to get 
to the ship and cut off those con- 
verters before they make like a 
nova.” 

Angus chuckled. “Suppose half 
of them decide to stay here with 
me?” 

Drummond swore impatiently 
at his skepticism. “At any rate, 
one of us might get back to the 
converters.” 

“And leave the other here?” 

“He can say he’s Jackson and 
order an attack in force on the 
ship.” 

“I don’t follow you.” 

“Skidding the ship in a circle 
with the exhaust blowers on,” 
Drummond explained patiently, 
“will take care of ten thousand 
clunkers.” 

He dropped from the ledge and 
raced into the cave. None of the 
robots stirred. Either they hadn’t 
noticed Drummond’s departure, 
Angus reasoned, or they weren’t 
concerned because they knew the 
cave led nowhere. 



ALL JACKSON'S CHILDREN 



37 



HE sun came up, daubing the 
cliff with splotches of orange 
and purple and striking up scin- 
tillations in the beads of dew on 
the robots’ backs. 

And still the tiresomely shouted 
veneration continued. 

Angus paced the ledge, stop- 
ping occasionally to stare into the 
impenetrable shadows of the cave. 
He checked his watch. Five hours 
to go — five hours, and then time 
would be meaningless for the rest 
of his life, with the ship destroyed. 

It was unlikely that rescue 
would come. The wrecked spac- 
er’s automatic distress signals had 
gone out in an ever-expanding 
sphere for a hundred years, and 
he and Drummond had been the 
only humans to hear them. 

Trade routes were pretty stable 
in this section of the Galaxy now. 
And it was hardly possible that, 
within the next ten or twenty 
years, one would be opened up 
that would intercept the SOS that 
had lured them here. 

He stood up and surveyed the 
robots. “RA-204.” 

204 reared erect. “Yes, Jack- 
son?” 

“One of us is gone.” 

“We know, O Supervisor.” 

“Why did you let him get 
away?” 

“If he is not the True Jackson, 
it doesn’t matter that he fled. If 
he is the Supervisor, he will re- 
turn. Otherwise, why did he come 

38 



here to us in the first place?” 

Another robot straightened. 
“We are ashamed, O Jackson, that 
we have failed the Divine Test 
and have not recognized our True 
Supervisor.” 

Angus held up his arms for si- 
lence. “Once there was a cargo of 
robots. That was a hundred years 
ago. The ship was from Vega II. 
It developed trouble and crashed 
when it tried to land on this 
planet. There was — ” 

“What's a year, O Supervisor?” 
asked 204. 

“A Vega-two, Jackson?” said 76 
bewilderedly. 

“What’S a planet?” another 
wanted to know. 

McIntosh leaned back hope- 
lessly against the cliff. All of their 
memories and a good deal of their 
vocabularies had been lost. He 
could determine how much only 
through days of conversation. It 
would take weeks to learn their 
function, to rekindle a sense of 
duty sufficiently strong to draw 
their interest away from religion. 
Unless — 

He drew resolutely erect. “Strip 
the converters! Pull the aft tube 
lining!” 

The robots looked uncompre- 
hendingly at him. It was obvious 
they weren’t trained for space- 
craft maintenance. 

But it had to have something 
to do with mechanics. “A battle 
fleet is orbiting at one diameter! 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



Arm all warheads on the double!” 

They stared helplessly at one 
another, then back at Angus. Not 
ordnancemen. 

“Pedestrian Strip Number Two 
is jammed! Crane crew, muster 
on the right!” 

The robots shifted uncertainly. 
Apparently they weren’t civic 
maintenancemen, either. 

Defeated, Angus scanned their 
blank face plates. For a moment, 
it was almost as though he could 
discern expressions of confusion. 
Then he laughed at the thought 
that metal could accommodate a 
frown. 

Suddenly the robots shifted 
their gaze to the cave. Drum- 
mond, shoulders sagging dis- 
mally, walked out and squinted 
against the glare. Several of the 
robots started toward him. 

“Okay, okay!” he growled, head- 
ing back for the ledge before they 
could reach him. 

ffiy O LUCK?” Angus asked. 

Disgusted, Drummond 
clambered up beside him. “The 
cave’s just a nice-sized room.” 

“Took you two hours to find 
that out?” 

The younger man shook his 
head. “I was hiding by the en- 
trance, waiting for the clunkers 
to break it up and give me a 
chance to run for the ship . . . 
How many robots did we decide 
there were?” 



“About eight hundred.” 
“Wrong. You can add another 
four hundred or so.” 

“In the cave?” 

Drummond nodded. “With their 
parts spread all the way from 
here to hell and back.” 
“Dismantled?” 

“Down to the last nut and bolt. 
They’ve even got their secondary 
memory banks stripped.” 

Angus was thoughtfully silent 
a long while. “RA ...” he said fi- 
nally. “Robot Assembler!” 

“That’s what I figured.” Drum- 
mond turned back toward the ro- 
bots and funneled his voice 
through his hands. 

“Okay, you clunkers! I want all 
odd-numbered RAs stripped down 
for reconditioning!’ He glanced at 
Angus. “When they get through. 
I’ll have half of what’s left strip 
the other half, and so forth.” 
McIntosh grinned caustically. 
“Brilliant! The whole operation 
shouldn’t take more than two or 

I 

three days.” Then his face took 
on a grim cast. “Drummond, 
we’ve only got four hours left to 
get to those converters.” 

“But you don’t understand. 
Once they get started, they’ll be 
so busy, we’ll probably be able to 
walk away.” 

Angus smiled indulgently. 
“Once they get started.” 

He nodded toward the robots. 
They had all returned to their 
attitude of veneration. 



ALL JACKSON'S CHILDREN 



39 



“It won’t work,” McIntosh ex- 
plained. “Their obsession with re- 
ligion is stronger than their 
primary compulsion. That’s prob- 
ably because they’ve been satisfy- 
ing their compulsion all along.” 
He jerked a thumb in the direc- 
tion of the cave. 

Drummond swore venomously. 

Angus dropped down on the 
ledge and folded his knees in his 
arms. He felt his age bearing 
down on him for the first time. 

“Twelve hundred robots,” he 
said meditatively. “Twelve hun- 
dred RA robots. Out of touch with 
civilization for a century. Satisfy- 
ing their primary function by dis- 
assembling and assembling one 
another. Going at it in shifts. 
Splitting themselves into three 
groups.” 

“That device on their left 
thumb,” Drummond interrupted. 
“It’s a burnisher. That’s why 
they’re so shiny.” 

Angus nodded. “Three groups. 
Group A spends so many months 
stripping and reassembling Group 
B. Meanwhile, Group C, which 
has just been put together again, 
has no memory because their sec- 
ondary banks have been wiped 
clean. So, like children, they /earn 
from the working Group A.” 

TTkRUMMOND’S mouth hung 
open in shocked understand- 
ing. “And by the time A finishes 
the job, C’s education is com- 

40 



plete! And it’s A’s turn to be 
stripped!” 

“By then,” Angus went on, 
“Group C is not only ready to 
start stripping Group A, but has 
also become intellectually mature 
enough to begin the education of 
the reassembled Group B!” 

They sat still for a while, think- 
ing it over. 

“The compulsion to do their 
jobs,” McIntosh continued, “is un- 
changed because the primary 
function banks are sealed circuits 
and can’t be tampered with. But 
in each generation, they have 
their secondary memory circuits 
wiped clean and have to start all 
over, getting whatever general 
knowledge they can from the last 
generation.” 

Drummond snapped his fingers 
excitedly. “That’s why they don’t 
know what we are! Their idea of 
Man had to be passed down by 
word of mouth. And it got all dis- 
torted in the process!” 

Angus’s stare, more solicitous 
now, swept slowly over the pros- 
trate robots. “More important, 
that’s why they developed a reli- 
gion. What’s the main difference 
between human and robotic intel- 
ligence? It’s that our span of life 
is limited on one end by birth, the 
other by death — mysteries of ori- 
gin and destiny that can’t be ex- 
plained. You see, the ordinary 
clunker understands where he 
came from and where he’s going. 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



But here are robots who have to 
struggle with those mysteries — 
birth and death of the conscious 
intellect which they themselves 
once knew, and forgot, and now 
have turned into myths.” 

"So they start thinking in terms 
of religion,” Drummond said. 
“Well, that clears up the whole 
thing, doesn’t it?” 

“Not quite. It doesn’t explain 
why the religion they’ve invented 
parallels ours so closely. And it 
doesn’t tell us who Jackson is.” 
Drummond ran thick finger- 
nails against the stubble on his 
cheeks. “Jackson is my Supervi- 
sor. I shall not rust. He maketh 
me to adjust my joint tension—” 
He stopped and frowned. “I’ve 
heard that before somewhere, 
only it sounded different.” 

Angus gave him a wry, tired 
smile. “Sure. It’s practically the 
Psalm of David. Now you see 
why the resemblance is driving 
me batty.” 

^^HE robots stirred. Several of 
them stood up and plodded 
into the cave. The others contin- 
ued repeating their endless praise 
and devotion — prayers in every 
sense of the word except common 
sense. 

Angus leaned back against the 
cliff and let the sun’s heat warm 
him. 

“Somehow it doesn’t seem fair,” 
he commented unhappily. 



“What doesn’t?” Drummond 
asked. 

“They’re so close to the Truth. 
Yet, after we file a report, a de- 
activation crew will come along 
and erase their beliefs. They’ll 
have their memory banks swept 
clean and once more they’ll be 
nothing but clunkers with a fac- 
tory-specification job of routine 
work to do.” 

“Ain’t that what they’re sup- 
posed to be?” 

“But these are different. 
They’ve found something no 
clunker’s ever had before — hope, 
faith, aspiration beyond death.” 
He shook- his head ruefully. 

There was movement at the 
mouth of the cave and the smaller 
group of robots emerged from the 
shadows, two of them bearing a 
stone slab. Their steps were cere- 
moniously slow as they ap- 
proached the ledge. Bowing, they 
placed the tablet at Angus’s feet 
and backed away. 

“These are the articles of our 
faith, O Jackson,” one announced. 
“We have preserved them for 
Thy coming.” 

McIntosh stared down at the 
chaired remains of a book. Its 
metal-fiber binding was shredded 
and fused and encrusted with the 
dust of ages. 

Drummond knelt beside it and, 
with stiff fingers, brushed away 
the film of grime, uncovering part 
of the title: 



All JACKSON'S CHILDREN 



41 



O L Y 
BIB E 

Eagerly, Angus eased the cover 
back. Of the hundreds of pages it 
had originally contained, only 
flaked parts of two or three re- 
mained. The printing was scarcely 
legible on the moldy paper. 

He read aloud those words he 
could discern; 

“. . . to lie down in green pas- 
tures; He leadeth me beside cool 
waters; He ...” 

Drummond jabbed Angus with 
a triumphant forefinger. “They 
didn’t invent any religion, after 
all!” 

“It isn’t important how they 
got it. The fact that they accepted 
it — that’s what’s important.” Mc- 
Intosh glanced up at Drummond. 
“They probably found this in the 
wreck of the ship they’d been in. 
It’s easy to see they haven’t used 
it in hundreds of generations. In- 
stead, the gist of what’s in it was 
passed down orally. And their 
basic concepts of Man and super- 
visor were distorted all along the 
way — confused with the idea of 
God.” 

G ently, he let the cover fall. 

And a shining square of dur- 
aloid fell out. 

“It’s somebody’s picture!” 
Drummond exclaimed. 

“An ID card,” Angus said, hold- 
ing it so the light wouldn’t re- 

42 



fleet off its transparent protective 
cover. 

It was a picture of a nonde- 
script man — not as stout as Drum- 
mond, nor as lean as McIntosh — 
with hair neither all black, like 
the younger man’s, nor nearly all 
white, like Angus’s. 

The print below the picture 
was indiscernible, except for the 
subject’s last name . . . 

“Jackson!” Drummond whis- 
pered. 

Angus slowly replaced the card. 
“A hundred years of false devo- 
tion,” he said pensively. “Just 
think — ” 

“This is no time for that kind 
of gas.” Drummond glanced at his 
watch. “We got just two hours to 
cut off those converters.” Desper- 
ately, he faced the robots. “Hey, 
you clunkers! You’re robot assem- 
biers. You got four hundred clunk- 
ers in that cave, all in pieces. Get 
in there and put ’em together!” 

Angus shook his head disap- 
provingly. Somehow it didn’t seem 
right, calling them clunkers. 

“Jackson is my Supervisor!” in- 
toned RA-204. 

“Jackson is my Supervisor!” 
echoed the mass. 

Drummond glanced frantically 
at his watch, then looked help- 
lessly at Angus. Angus shrugged. 

The younger man’s face sud- 
denly tensed with resolution. “So 
they’ve got to have a Jackson? All 
right. I’ll give ’em one!” 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



He waved his fist at the horde. 
“I’m your Supervisor! I’m your 
Jackson! Now clear out of the 
way and—” 

RA-76’s hand darted out and 
seized Drummond’s ankle, tugged 
him off the ledge. As he fell to 
the ground, a score of robots 
closed in over him, metal arms 
flailing down methodically. Angus 
yelled at them to stop, saw he was 
too late and sank down, turning 
away sickly. 

Finally, after a long while, they 
backed off and faced Angus. 

“We have passed the Divine 
test, O Jackson!” 204 shouted up 
jubilantly. 

“We have redeemed ourselves 
before our Supervisor!” exclaimed 
76. 

It took a long, horror-filled mo- 
ment before Angus could speak. 

“How do you know?” he man- 
aged to ask at last. 

“If he had been Jackson,” ex- 
claimed 204, “we could not have 
destroyed him.” 

HE robots fell prostrate again 
and returned to their devo- 
tional. But now the phrases were 
triumphant, where before they 
had been servile and uncertain. 

Angus stared numbly down at 
Drummond, then backed against 
the cliff. The litany below, exu- 
berant now, grew mightily in vol- 
ume, booming vibrantly against 
distant hills. 



“There is but one Supervisor!” 
intoned 204. 

“But one Jackson!” answered 
the assembly. 

“And now He dwelleth among 
His children!” 76 chanted. 

“In their midst!” boomed the 
hundreds. 

Suddenly it all seemed horribly 
ludicrous and Angus laughed. The 
litany stopped and his laughter 
grew shriller, louder, edged with 
hysteria. 

The shimmering sea of metal, 
confounded, stared at him and it 
was as though he could see fleshy 
furrows of confusion on the fea- 
tureless faces . . . But how could 
a clunker show emotion? 

His laughter slowed and died, 
like the passing of a violent storm. 
And he felt weakened with a sick- 
ening sense of compassion. Robots 

— human robots — standing awed 
before unknown concepts while 
they groped for Truth. Clunkers 
with a sense of right and wrong 
and with an overwhelming love. 
It was absurd that he had been 
elected father of twelve hundred 
children — whether flesh or metal 

— but it didn’t feel at all absurd. 

“Dost Thou despair of us, O 

Jackson?” asked 76 hesitantly, 
staring up at him. 

204 motioned toward the ship, 
the top of its hull shining beyond 
the nearby woods. “Wouldst Thou 
still return to Thy vessel. Super- 
visor?” 



ALL JACKSON'S CHILDREN 



43 



Incredulous, Angus tensed. 
“You mean I can go?” 

“If that is Thy wish, True 
Jackson, you may go,” said 76 
submissively. 

As he watched unbelievingly, a 
corridor opened in their ranks, ex- 
tending toward the woods and the 
ship beyond. He glanced anx- 
iously at his watch. There was 
still more than an hour left. 

Wearily, he dropped from the 
ledge and trudged toward free- 
dom, trying to look straight ahead. 
His eyes, nevertheless, wandered 
to the dejected figures who faced 
him with their heads bowed. 

Then he laughed again, realiz- 
ing the illogical nature of his soli- 
citous thoughts. Imagine — de- 
jected clunkers! Still, the metal 
faces seemed somehow different. 
Where, a moment earlier, he had 
fancied expressions of jubilation, 
now there was the sense of hope- 
lessness on the steel plates. 

S HRUGGING off his uncer- 
tainty, he walked faster. After 
all, was it his fault they’d stum- 
bled up>on a substitute for birth 
and death and had become some- 
thing more than clunkers? What 
was he supposed to do — stay and 
play missionary, bring them the 
Truth so that when a deactivation 
crew came along, they would be 
so advanced morally that no one 
would suggest their destruction? 
He stopped and scanned the 



ranks on either side. He’d do one 
thing for them, at least — he 
wouldn’t report the wreck. Then 
it would be centuries, probably, 
before another ship wandered far 
enough away from the trade 
routes to intercept the distress 
signals. 

Relieved by his decision, he 
went ahead more at ease. 

And the litany started again — 
softly, appealing: 

“Jackson is my Supervisor.” 

“I shall not rust . . .” 

Angus stiffened abruptly and 
stared at his watch, realizing be- 
latedly that it had stopped. But 
how long ago? How much time 
did he have left? Should he take 
the chance and make a dash for 
the converters? 

He reached the end of the ro- 
bot corridor and started to sprint 
for the ship. 

But he halted and turned to 
glance back at the humble, pa- 
tient horde. They were expec- 
tantly silent now — as though 
they could sense his indecision. 
He backed away from them. 

Then the light of a hundred 
Arcturan days flared briefly and 
a mighty mountain of sound and 
concussion collapsed on him. The 
trees buckled and branches were 
hurled out against the cliff. It 
rained leaves and pieces of metal 
from the hull for a long while as 
Angus hugged the ground. 

When he finally looked up, fa- 



CALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



miliar bits of the ship were strewn 
arorind him— a spacesuit helmet 
here, a control dial there, a trans- 
mitter tube up ahead. 

He rose shakily, staring at a 
black book that lay near the hel- 
met with its pages ruffled. He 
picked it up and straightened out 
the leaves. Then he motioned to 
the robots and they clustered 
around him. 



He would have to start from 
the beginning. 

He wet his lips. 

“In the beginning,” Angus read 
in a loud, convincing voice, “God 
created heaven and earth and the 
earth was void and empty and 
darkness was upon the face of the 
deep. And God said, ‘Let there be 
light’ . . .” 

—DANIEL F. GALOUYE 



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Begin with deceptively simple FOUR STRAIGHT, 
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dress with cash, check, or money order payable to: 3 ASBURY PLACE 

HOUSTON, TEXAS 



ALL JACKSON'S CHILDREN 



45 




GALAXY'S 

5 Star Shelf 



' I ’HIS time of year brings its 
problems. For a change, it’s 
not Whom shall we Do — but 
What shall we Give. Being lim- 
ited in space, I shall have to con- 
centrate on one market — juve- 
niles. Everyone knows a yoimgster, 
or was one once. As our annual 
crimson-clad Santa might say, 
“Forewarned is four-armed.” And 
so I hope I can help someone 
avoid the stinkers and make a 
happy choice. 

BETWEEN PLANETS by Rob- 
ert Heinlein. Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, N. Y., $2.75 



T IKE all Heinlein’s juveniles, 
plausibility of plot, motiva- 
tion and science are all upper- 
most. His boy heroes have human 
fallibilities and manage to make 
plenty of errors of judgment, even 
as we adults. 

Don Harvey, a teen-age student 
with a bothersome nationality 
problem, is recalled from school 
in New Mexico by a couple of 
cryptic spacegrams from his par- 
ents on Mars. Trouble is brew- 
ing with the Venus Colony. It 
erupts when he reaches Circum 
Terra, Earth’s space station. A 
Venusian raiding party has seized 



46 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



the station under the noses of 
Earth’s forces and Don becomes a 
human football. Born in deep 
space of Venusian and Earth par. 
entage, his nationality becomes a 
vital issue. 

He is finally allowed to land 
on Venus, mainly through the in- 
tervention of Sir Isaac Newton, a 
most engaging dragon-native of 
Venus. He has also managed to 
retain a cheap plastic ring given 
him by a leading Earth scientist 
before the scientist’s demise at the 
hands of Terrestrial security po 
lice, who also gave Don a rough 
working-over prior to his leaving 
Earth. 

Don’s big problem is to reach 
Mars with the mysterious ring for 
his parents. With Terra’s over- 
whelming superiority, however, it 
doesn’t look as if he will until the 
end of hostilities. 

These are by no means all of 
Don’s headaches. Survival comes 
first. 

Heinlein has written a juvenile 
that is also guaranteed to have 
the adult reader at seat edge. 

MISSION TO THE MOON by 
Lester del Rey. John C. Winston 
Co., Phila. & Toronto, $2.00 

^EQUEL to Step to the Stars, 
this volume carries the story 
of the conquest of space another 
pace forward from the successful 
space station. Young Jim Stanley, 



hero of the original construction 
by reason of leading the mutiny 
that got the job finished, is at 
loose ends. 

Relegated to ferry work, he is 
eager to be among the first to 
tackle the big piloting job, that 
of handling the Moon ships. At 
the moment, however, public re- 
action has swung against further 
exploration by virtue of the prop- 
aganda campaign by the Com- 
bine, a union of European and 
Asiatic nations. It takes adroit 
political maneuvering, plus a fool- 
ishly heroic action, to make the 
Moon trip possible. 

Del Key’s book has a remark- 
ably strong feeling of reality. 

SPACE POLICE, edited by An- 
dre Norton. World Publishing 
Co., Cleveland 8s N. Y., $2.75 

TN THE old days, this “idea” 
anthology would hardly have 
been classified as a juvenile. I’ve 
been maintaining in private argu- 
ments that what was good enough 
for us back then is also good 
enough for the new generation, 
the vast difference being that 
they’re ready for it at a much 
earlier age! 

The book is subdivided into 
three sections: “We Police Our- 
selves,” “We are Policed” and 
“Galactic Agents.” Of the nine 
stories, four are bell-ringers, four 
are bell-buzzers and one is a 



★ ★★★★ SHELF 



47 



dead button — not at all a bad 
percentage. 

FLIGHT TO THE MISTY 
PLANET by M. E. Patchett. 
Bobbs-Mernll Co., Inc., Indian- 
apolis 8s N. Y., $2.75 

"OATHER than being the rec- 
ord of a flight to Venus, as 
the title seems to imply, this is 
the Odyssey of two youths, mid- 
shipmen on a Space Patrol train- 
ing ship. Their survey rocket is 
wrecked within a huge cloud- 
concealed bowl harboring wild-life 
that makes Conan Doyle’s Lost 
World look like the Children’s 
Zoo. 

M. E. Patchett writes a fast- 
moving, virile adventure yarn, 
which is a bit surprising — the “M” 
stands for Mary. 

SPACEWARD BOUND by Slater 
Brown. Prentice-Hall, Inc., N. Y., 
$2.75 

4 N exuberant but ill-prepared 
attempt at a flight to the 
Moon opens this book. An object 
lesson in thoroughness is thus pre- 
sented to the juvenile reader in 
the failure of the expedition. 

The remainder of the book is 
devoted to the efforts of a group 
of American college students and 
graduates, financed by a mysteri- 
ous Indian benefactor, to perfect 
the techniques of space travel. 

48 



Their task is made even harder 
by an enemy within, an instructor 
with a dictator complex, deter- 
mined to rule the world by means 
of an invincible space station. 

You might call this a juvenile 
Prelude to Space — the Menace is 
thrown in for youthful excite- 
ment. 

STARBOY by Carl L. Biemiller. 
Henry Holt 85 Co., N. Y., $2.50 

C EVER AL of this month’s books 
^ are sequels, but they all have 
the virtue of being complete and 
enjoyable in themselves. 

The Magic Ball from Mars, 
meant for the 8-to-12 audience, 
introduced us to Johnny Jenks 
and his Martian friend Arcon, 
who made the mistake of leaving 
Johnny with the space-a-tron, a 
magic marble that obeys mental 
commands. 

In this sequel, Arcon brings his 
son Remo to Earth to spend a va- 
cation with Johnny. Mr. Jenks, a 
government employee, informs 
Washington about his guest and 
the bureaucrats want to make a 
hostage of Remo. Luckily, one of 
them is a very understanding 
chap and he and an old Mr. Ap- 
plegate make the boys’ vacation 
an enjoyable offering of little 
boys’ delights. 

ZIP-ZIP AND HIS FLYING 
SAUCER by John M. Schealer. 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., N. Y., 
S2.50 

y IP-ZIP is the name of a boy 
“ ^ from Mars who has so much 
excess energy that he Zips in the 
middle of a sentence. Disconcert- 
ing conversationally, but very 
convenient when you want a 
steam shovel brought from Chi- 
cago, and he has a flying saucer 
handy that can do the job. 

Randy Riddle, with his two 
brothers and sister, gain Zip’s aid 
in helping their father, who must 
have a steam shovel or lose three 
days’ work time. 

Zip helps them out, but they 
experience a bit of difficulty. Did 
you ever see a flying saucer with 
a full-size steam shovel suspended 
beneath? 

Your 8-to-12 should love it, 
especially the illustrations by 
Hans Helweg. 

INSIDE THE ATOM by Isaac 
Asimov. Abelard-Schuman, Inc., 
N. Y., $2.75 

TT ISN’T fiction, but Asimov 
manages to come up with a 
book that teen-agers and even 
pre-teens can sink their milk teeth 
into with gusto and profit. He 
gives the atomic story in a thor- 
ough — and thoroughly readable — 
style, from the structure of the 



atom down to the hazards of fis- 
sion and the future of atomic 
power in our civilization. 

THE STARS BY CLOCK AND 
FIST by Henry M. Neely. The 
Viking Press, N. Y., $4.00 

I^OW here’s a book that fills a 

’ need! All these centuries, the 
neophyte astronomer has had to 
guess his way through virtually 
incomprehensible star-maps, cross- 
ing his eyes in an effort to recog- 
nize the products of our ances- 
tors’ imaginations. 

Neely is well qualified to pro- 
duce such a book. He lectures at 
the Hayden Planetarium in New 
York, conducts a beginners’ as- 
tronomy course and is editor of 
The Sky Reporter, the Planeta- 
rium’s monthly magazine. 

He has constructed a simple 
recognition system consisting 
solely of his book, a fist and a 
knowledge of the face of a clock. 
A series of maps gives the loca- 
tion of the constellations at any 
time of year in any northern lati- 
tude and, with no more equip- 
ment than the human hand, indi- 
vidual stars can be recognized 
even by the most bewildered be- 
ginner. 

I can vouch that it works both 
easily and well. 

— FLOYD C. GALE 



*★★★★ SHELF 



49 



Butferfly 9 

By DONALD KEITH 



Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to 
offer — one where giant economy-size trouble 
had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekagel 



I 

A t first, Jeff scarcely 
noticed the bold-looking 
man at the next table. 
Nor did Ann. Their minds were 
busy with Jeff’s troubles. 

“You’re still the smartest color 
engineer in television,” Ann told 
Jeff as they dallied with their 
food. “You’ll bounce back. Now 
eat your supper.” 

“This beanery is too noisy and 
hot,” he grumbled. “I can’t eat. 
Can’t talk. Can’t think.” He took 
a silver pillbox from his pocket 
and fumbled for a black one. 
Those were vitamin pills; the big 
red and yellow ones were sleeping 



capsules. He gulped the pill. 

Ann looked disapproving in a 
wifely way. “Lately you chew 
pills like popcorn,” she said. “Do 
you really need so many?” 

“I need something. I’m sure 
losing my grip.” 

Ann stared at him. “Baby! How 
silly! Nothing happened, except 
you lost your lease. You’ll build 
up a better company in a new 
spot. We’re young yet.” 

J EFF sighed and glanced around 
the crowded little restaurant. 
He wished he could fly away 
somewhere. At that moment, he 
met the gaze of the moustachioed 
man at the next table. 



Illustrated by GAUGHAN 



50 



OAIAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




BUTTERFLY 9 



51 





The fellow seemed to be watch- 
ing him and Ann. Something in 
his confident gaze made Jeff un- 
easy. Had they met before? 

Ann whispered, “So you no- 
ticed him, too. Maybe he’s fol- 
lowing us. I think I saw him on 
the parking lot where we left the 
car.” 

Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. 
“If he’s following us, he’s nuts. 
We’ve got no secrets and no 
money.” 

“It must be my maddening 
beauty,” said Ann. 

“I’ll kick him cross-eyed if he 
starts anything,” Jeff said. “I’m 
just in the mood.” 

Ann giggled. “Honey, what big 
veins you have! Forget him. Let’s 
talk about the engineering lab 
you’re going to start. And let’s 
eat.” 

He groaned. “I lose my appetite 
every time I think about the 
building being sold. It isn’t worth 
the twelve grand. I wouldn’t buy 
it for that if I could. What burns 
me is that, five years ago, I could 
have bought it for two thousand.” 
“If only we could go back five 
years.” She shrugged fatalistically. 
“But since we can’t — ” 

The character at the next table 
leaned over and spoke to them, 
grinning. “You like to get away? 
You wish to go back?” 

Jeff glanced across in annoy- 
ance. The man was evidently a 
salesman, with extra gall. 

52 



“Not now, thanks,” Jeff said. 
“Haven’t time.” 

The man waved his thick hand 
at the clock, as if to abolish time. 
“Time? That is nothing. Your lit- 
tle lady. She si>oke of go back 
five years. Maybe I help you.” 
He spoke in an odd clipped 
way, obviously a foreigner. His 
shirt was yellow. His suit had a 
silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring 
emphasized the bulges in his 
stubby, muscular torso. 

Ann smiled back at him. “You 
talk as if you could take us back 
to 1952. Is that what you really 
mean?” 

“Why not? You think this silly. 
But I can 'show you.” 

Jeff rose to go. “Mister, you 
better get to a doctor. Ann, it’s 
time we started home.” 

A NN laid a hand on his sleeve. 

“I haven’t finished eating. 
Let’s chat with the gent.” She 
added in an undertone to Jeff, 
“Must be a psycho — but sort of 
an inspired one.” 

The man said to Ann, “You are 
kind lady, I think. Good to crazy 
people. I join you.” 

He did . not wait for consent, 
but slid into a seat at their table 
with an easy grace that was al- 
most arrogant. 

“You are unhappy in 1957,” he 
went on. “Discouraged. Restless. 
Why not take trip to another 
time?” 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“Why not?” Ann said gaily. 
“How much does it cost?” 

“Free trial trip. Cost nothing. 
See whether you like. Then may- 
be we talk money.” He handed 
Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic 
substance. 

Jeff glanced at it, then handed 
it to Ann with a half-smile. It 
read: 

4-D TRAVEL BEURO 
Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent 

“Mr. Snader’s bureau is differ- 
ent,” Jeff said to his wife. “He 
even spells it different.” 

Snader chuckled. “I come from 
other time. We spell otherwise.” 

“You mean you come from the 
future?” 

“Just different time. I show 
ycu. You come with me?” 

“Come where?” Jeff asked, 
studying Snader’s mocking eyes. 
The man didn’t seem a mere ec- 
centric. He had a peculiar sugges- 
tion of humor and force. 

“Come on little trip to different 
time,” invited Snader. He added 
persuasively, “Could be back here 
in hour.” 

“It would be painless, I sup- 
pose?” Jeff gave it a touch of de- 
rision. 

“Maybe not. That is risk you 
take. But look at me. I make trips 
every day. I look damaged?” 

As a matter of fact, he did. His 
thick-fleshed face bore a scar and 



his nose was broad and flat, as if 
it had been broken. But Jeff po- 
litely agreed that he did not look 
damaged. 

Ann was enjoying this. “Tell 
me more, Mr. Snader. How does 
your time travel work?” 

“Cannot explain. Same if you 
are asked how subway train 
works. Too complicated.” He 
flashed his white teeth. “You 
think time travel not possible. 
Just like television not possible 
to your grandfather.” 

Ann said, “Why invite us? 
We’re not rich enough for expen- 
sive trips.” 

“Invite many people,” Snader 
said quickly. “Not expensive. You 
know Missing Persons lists, from 
police? Dozens people disappear. 
They go with me to other time. 
Many stay.” 

“Oh, sure,” Jeff said. “But how 
do you select the ones to invite?” 
“Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. 
Ones who want change, escape.” 

J EFF was slightly startled. How 
did this fellow know his name 
was Elliott? 

Before he could ask, Ann 
popped another question. “Mr. 
Snader, you heard us talking. You 
know we’re in trouble because 
Jeff missed a good chance five 
years ago. Do you claim people 
can really go back into the past 
and correct mistakes they’ve 
made?” 



BUTTERFLY 9 



53 



“They can go back. What they 
do when arrive? Depends on 
them.” 

“Don’t you wish it were true?” 
she sighed to Jeff. 

“You afraid to believe,” said 
Snader, a glimmer of amusement 
in his restless eyes. “Why not try? 
What you lose? Come on, look at 
station. Very near here.” 

Ann jumped up. “It might be 
fun, Jeff. Let’s see what he means, 
if anything.” 

Jeff’s puse quickened. He too 
felt a sort of midsummer night’s 
madness — a yearning to forget his 
troubles. “Okay, just for kicks. 
But we go in my car.” 

Snader moved ahead to the 
cashier’s stand. Jeff watched the 
weasellike grace of his short, 
broad body. 

“This is no ordinary oddball,” 
Jeff told Ann. “He’s tricky. He’s 
got some gimmick.” 

“First I just played him along, 
to see how loony he was,” Ann 
said. “Now I wonder who’s kid- 
ding whom.” She concluded 
thoughtfully, “He’s kind of hand- 
some, in a tough way.” 

II 

CNADER’S “station” proved to 
^ be a middle-sized, middle-cost 
home in a good neighborhood. 
Lights glowed in the windows. 
Jeff could hear the whisper of 
traffic on a boulevard a few 

54 



blocks away. Through the warm 
dusk, he could dimly see the 
mountains on the horizon. All was 
peaceful. 

Snader unlocked the front door 
with a key which he drew from a 
fine metal chain around his neck. 
He swept open the front door 
with a flourish and beamed at 
them, but Ann drew back. 

“ ‘Walk into my parlor, said the 
spider to the fly,’ ” she murmured 
to Jeff. “This could ’oe a gambling 
hell. Or a dope den.” 

“No matter what kind of clip 
joint, it can’t clip us much,” he 
said. “There’s only four bucks in 
my wallet My guess is it’s a 
‘temple’ for some daffy religious 
sect.” 

They went in. A fat man smiled 
at them from a desk in the hall. 
Snader said, “Meet Peter Powers. 
Local agent of our bureau.” 

The man didn’t get up, but 
nodded comfortably and waved 
them toward the next room, after 
a glance at Snader’s key. 

The key opened this room’s 
door, too. Its spring lock snapped 
shut after them. 

The room was like a doctor’s 
waiting room, with easy chairs 
along the walls. Its only peculiar 
aspects were a sign hanging from 
the middle of the ceiling and two 
movie screens — or were they giant 
television screens? — occupying a 
whole wall at either end of the 
room. 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



The sign bore the number 701 
in bright yellow on black. Be- 
neath it, an arrow pointed to the 
screen on the left with the word 
Ante, and to the right with the 
word Post. 

Jeff studied the big screens. On 
each, a picture was in motion. 
One appeared to be moving 
through a long corridor, lined 
with seats like a railroad club car. 
The picture seemed to rush at 
them from the left wall. When he 
turned to the right, a similar end- 
less chair-lined corridor moved 
toward him from that direction. 

“Somebody worked hard on 
this layout,” he said to Snader. 
“What’s it for?” 

“Time travel,” said Snader. 
“You like?” 

“Almost as good as Disneyland. 
These movies represent the stream 
of time, I supjKJse?” 

TNSTEAD of answering, Snader 
pointed to the screen. The pic- 
ture showed a group of people 
chatting in a fast-moving corri- 
dor. As it hurtled toward them, 
Snader flipped his hand in a 
genial salute. Two people in the 
picture waved back. 

Ann gasped. “It was just as if 
they saw us.” 

“They did,” Snader said. “No 
movie. Time travelers. In fourth 
dimension. To you, they look like 
flat picture. To them, we look 
flat.” 



“What’s he supposed to be?” 
Jeff asked as thp onrushing pic- 
ture showed them briefly a figure 
boimd hand and foot, huddled in 
one of the chairs. He stared at 
them piteously for an instant be- 
fore the picture surged past. 

Snader showed his teeth. “That 
was convict from my time. We 
have criminals, like in your time. 
But we do not kill. We make 
them work. Where he going? To 
end of line. To earliest year this 
time groove reach. About 600 A.D., 
your calendar. Authorities pick up 
when he get there. Put him to 
work.” 

“What kind of work?” Jeff 
asked. 

“Building the groove further 
back.” 

“Sounds like interesting work.” 
Snader chortled and slapped 
him on the back. “Maybe you see 
it some day, but forget that now. 
You come with me. Little trip.” 
Jeff was perspiring. This was 
odder than he expected. What- 
ever the fakery, it was clever. His 
curiosity as a technician made 
him want to know about it. He 
asked Snader, “Where do you pro- 
pose to go? And how?” 

Snader said, “Watch me. Then 
look at other wall.” 

He moved gracefully to the 
screen on the left wall, stepped 
into it and disappeared. It was as 
if he had slid into opaque water. 
Jeff and Ann blinked in mysti- 



BUTTERFLY 9 



55 



fication. Then they remembered 
his instruction to watch the other 
screen. They turned. After a mo- 
ment, in the far distance down 
the long moving corridor, they 
could see a stocky figure. The 
motion of the picture brought him 
nearer. In a few seconds, he was 
recognizable as Snader — and as 
the picture brought him forward, 
he stepped down out of it and was 
with them again. 

“Simple,” Snader said. “I rode 
to next station. Then crossed 
over. Took other carrier back 
here.” 

“Brother, that’s the best trick 
I’ve seen in years,” Jeff said. 
“How did you do it? Can I do 
it, too?” 

“I show you.” Grinning like a 
wildcat, Snader linked his arms 
with Ann and Jeff, and walked 
them toward the screen. “Now,” 
he said. “Step in.” 

J EFF submitted to Snader’s 
pressure and stepped cau- 
tiously into the screen. Amaz- 
ingly, he felt no resistance at all, 
no sense of change or motion. It 
was like stepping through a fog- 
bank into another room. 

In fact, that was what they 
seemed to have done. They were 
in the chair-lined corridor. As 
Snader turned them around and 
seated them, they faced another 
moving picture screen. It seemed 
to rush through a dark tunnel to- 




56 



OAIAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




ward a lighted square in the far 
distance. 

The square grew on the screen. 
Soon they saw it was another 
room like the waiting room they 
had left, except that the number 
hanging from the ceiling was 702. 
They seemed to glide through it. 
Then they were in the dark tun- 
nel again. 

Ann was clutching JefFs arm. 
He patted her hand. “Fun, hey? 
Like Alice through the looking- 
glass.” 

“You really think we’re going 
back in time?” she whispered. 

“Hardly! But we’re seeing a 
million-dollar trick. I can’t even 
begin to figure it out yet.” 

Another lighted room grew out 
of the tunnel on the screen, and 
when they had flickered through 
it, another and then another. 

“Mr. Snader,” Ann said un- 
steadily, “how long — how many 
years back are you taking us?” 

Snader was humming to him- 
self. “Six years. Station 725 fine 
place to stop.” 

For a little while, Jeff let him- 
self think it might be true. “Six 
years ago, your dad was alive,” 
he mused to Ann. “If this should 
somehow be real, we could see 
him again.” 

“We could if we went to our 
house. He lived with us then, re- 
member? Would we see ourselves, 
six years younger? Or would — ” 

Snader took Jeff’s arm and 



BUTTERFLY 9 



57 



pulled him to his feet. The screen 
was moving through a room num- 
bered 724. 

“Soon now,” Snader grunted 
happily. “Then no more ques- 
tions.” 

He took an arm of each as he 
had before. When the screen was 
filled by a room with the number 
725, he propelled them forward 
into it. 

Again there was no sense of 
motion. They had simply stepped 
through a bright wall they could 
not feel. They found themselves 
in a replica of the room they had 
left at 701. On the wall, a picture 
of the continuous club-car corri- 
dor rolled toward them in a silent, 
endless stream. 

“The same room,” Ann said in 
disappointment. “They just 
changed the number. We haven’t 
been anywhere.” 

S NADER was fishing under his 
shirt for the key. He gave 
Ann a glance that was almost a 
leer. Then he carefully unlocked 
the door. 

In the hall, a motherly old lady 
bustled up, but Snader brushed 
past her. “Official,” he said, show- 
ing her the key. “No lodging.” 

He imlocked the front door 
without another word and care- 
fully shut it behind them as Jeff 
and Ann followed him out of the 
house. 

“Hey, where’s my car?” Jeff de- 



manded, looking up and down the 
street. 

The whole street looked differ- 
ent. Where he had parked his 
roadster, there was now a long 
black limousine. 

“Your car is in future,” Snader 
said briskly. “Where it belong. 
Get in.” He opened the door of 
the limousine. 

Jeff felt a little flame of excite- 
ment licking inside him. Some- 
thing was happening, he felt. 
Something exciting and danger- 
ous. 

“Snader,” he said, “if you’re 
kidnaping us, you made a mis- 
take. Nobody on Earth will pay 
ransom for us.” 

Snader seemed amused. “You 
are foolish fellow. Silly talk about 
ransom. You in different time 
now.” 

“When does this gag stop?” Jeff 
demanded irritably. “You haven’t 
fooled us. We’re still in 1957.” 

“You are? Look around.” 

Jeff looked at the street again. 
He secretly admitted to himself 
that these were different trees 
and houses than he remembered. 
Even the telephone poles and 
street lights seemed peculiar, 
vaguely foreign-looking. It must 
be an elaborate practical joke. 
Snader had probably ushered 
them into one house, then through 
a tunnel and out another house. 

“Get in,” Snader said curtly. 

Jeff decided to go along with 



51 



OALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



the hoax or whatever it was. He 
could see no serious risk. He 
helped Ann into the back seat and 
sat beside her. Snader slammed 
the door and slid into the driver’s 
seat. He started the engine with 
a roar and they rocketed away 
from the curb, narrowly missing 
another car. 

Jeff yelled, “Easy, man! Look 
where you’re going!” 

Snader guffawed. “Tonight, you 
look where you are going.” 

Ann clung to Jeff. “Did you 
notice the house we came out of?” 
“What about it?” 

“It looked as though they were 
afraid people might try to break 
in. There were bars at the win- 
dows.” 

“Lots of houses are built that 
way, honey. Let’s see, where are 
we?” He glanced at house num- 
bers. “This is the 800 block. Re- 
member that. And the street—” 
He peered up at a sign as they 
whirled around a corner. “The 
street is Green Thru-Way. I never 
heard of a street like that.” 

Ill 

^^HEY were headed back to- 
ward what should have been 
the boulevard. The car zoomed 
through a cloverleaf turn and up 
onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew 
for certain there was no freeway 
there in 1957 — nor in any earlier 
year. But on the horizon, he could 



see the familiar dark bulk of the 
mountains. The whole line of 
moonlit ridges was the same aa 
always. 

“Ann,” he said slowly, “I think 
this is for real. Somehow I guess 
we escaped from 1957. We’ve 
been transported in time.” 

She squeezed his arm. “If I’m 
dreaming, don’t wake me! I was 
scared a minute ago. But now, oh, 
boy!” 

“Likewise. But I still wonder 
what Snader’s angle is.” He 
leaned forward and tapped the 
driver on his meaty shoulder. 
“You brought us into the future 
instead of the past, didn’t you?” 

It was hard to know whether 
Snader was sleepy or just bored, 
but he shrugged briefly to show 
there was no reply coming. Then 
he yawned. 

Jeff smiled tightly. “I guess 
we’ll find out in good time. Let’s 
sit back and enjoy the strangest 
ride of our lives.” 

As the limousine swept along 
through the traffic, there were 
plenty of big signs for turn-offs, 
. but none gave any hint where 
they were. The names were unfa- 
miliar. Even the language seemed 
grotesque. “Rite Channel for 
Creepers,” he read. “Yaw for Tor- 
rey Rushway” flared at him from 
a fork in the freeway. 

“This can’t be Jhe future,” Ann 
said. “This limousine is almost 
new, but it doesn’t even have an 



BUTTERFLY 9 



59 



automatic gear shift—” 

She broke off as the car shot 
down a ramp off the freeway and 
pulled up in front of an apart- 
ment house. Just beyond was a 
big shopping center, ablaze with 
lights and swarming with shop- 
pers. Jeff did not recognize it, in 
spite of his familiarity with the 
city. 

Snader bounded out, pulled 
open the rear door and jerked his 
head in a commanding gesture. 
But Jeff did not get out. He told 
Snader, “Let’s have some answers 
before we go any further.” 

Snader gave him a hard grin. 
“You hear everything upstairs.” 

The building appeared harm- 
less enough. Jeff looked thought- 
fully at Ann. 

She said, “It’s just an apart- 
ment house. We’ve come this far. 
Might as well go in and see what’s 
there.” 

Snader led them in, up to the 
sixth floor in an elevator and 
along a corridor with heavy car- 
pets and soft gold lights. He 
knocked on a door. 

A TALL, silver-haired, impor- 
tant-looking man opened it 
and greeted them heartily. 

“Solid man. Greet!” he ex- 
claimed. “You’re a real scratcher! 
And is this our sharp?” He gave 
Jeff a friendly but appraising 
look. 

“Just what you order,” Snader 



said proudly. “His name — Jeff 
Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his cir- 
cuit. He brings his lifemate, too. 
Ann Elliott” 

The old man rubbed his smooth 
hands together. “Prime! I wish 
joy,” he said to Ann and Jeff. 
“I’m Septo Kersey. Come in. 
Bullen’s waiting.” 

He led them into a spacious 
drawing room with great windows 
looking out on the lights of the 
city. There was a leather chair in 
a corner, and in it sat a heavy 
man with a grim mouth. He made 
no move, but grunted a perfunc- 
tory “Wish joy” when Kersey in- 
troduced them. His cold eyes 
studied Jeff while Kersey seated 
them in big chairs. 

Snader did not sit down, how- 
ever. “No need for me now,” he 
said, and moved toward the door 
with a mocking wave at Ann. 

Bullen nodded. “You get the 
rest of your pay when Elliott 
proves out.” 

“Here, wait a minute!” Jeff 
called. But Snader was gone. 

“Sit still,” Bullen growled to 
Jeff. “You understand radiop- 
tics?” 

The blood went to Jeff’s head. 
“My business is television, if 
that’s what you mean. What’s this 
about?” 

“Tell him, Kersey,” the big man 
said, and stared out the window. 

Kersey began, “You under- 
stand, I think, that you have come 



60 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



back in time. About six years 
back.” 

“That’s a matter of opinion, 
but go on.” 

“I am general manager of Con- 
tinental Radioptic Combine, 
owned by Mr. Dumont Sullen.” 
He nodded toward the big man. 
“Chromatics have not yet been 
developed here in connection 
with radioptics. They are well un- 
derstood in your time, are they 
not?” 

“What’s chromatics? Color tele- 
vision?” 

“Exactly. You are an expert in 
— ah — colored television, I think.” 

Jeff nodded. “So what?” 

The old man beamed at him. 
“You are here to work for our 
company. You will enable us to 
be first with chromatics in this 
time wave.” 

Jeff stood up. “Don’t tell me 
who I’ll work for.” 

"DULLEN slapped a big fist on 
the arm of his chair. “No fog 
about this! You’re bought and 
paid for, Elliott! You’ll get a fair 
labor contract, but you do what 
I say!” 

“Why, the man thinks he owns 
you.” Ann laughed shakily. 

“You’ll find my barmen know 
their law,” Sullen said. “This isn’t 
the way I like to recruit. Sut it 
was only way to get a man with 
your knowledge.” 

Kersey said politely, “You are 



here illegally, with no immigrate 
permit or citizen file. Therefore 
you cannot get work. Sut Mr. 
Sullen has taken an interest in 
your trouble. Through his influ- 
ence, you can make a living. We 
even set aside an apartment in 
this building for you to live in. 
You are really very luxe, do you 
see?” 

Jeff’s legs felt weak. These 
highbinders seemed brutally con- 
fident. He wondered how he and 
Ann would find their way home 
through the strange streets. Hut 
he put on a bold front. 

“I don’t believe your line about 
time travel and I don’t plan to 
work for you,” he said. “My wife 
and I are walking out right now. 
Try and stop us, legally or any 
other way.” 

Kersey’s smooth old face turned 
hard. Hut, unexpectedly. Sullen 
chuckled deep in his throat. 
“Good pop and bang. Like to see 
it. Go on, walk out. You hang in 
trouble, call up here — Hutterfly 
9, ask for Sullen. Whole exchange 
us. I’ll meet you here about 
eleven tomorrow pre-noon.” 

“Don’t hold your breath. Let’s 
go, Ann.” 

When they were on the side- 
walk, Ann took a deep breath. 
“We made it. For a minute, I 
thought there’d be a brawl. Why 
did they let us go?” 

“No telling. Maybe they’re 
harmless lunatics — or practical 



BUTTERFLY 9 



61 



jokers.” He looked over his shoul- 
der as they walked down the 
street, but there was no sign of 
pursuit. “It’s a long time since 
supper.” 

¥TER hand was cold in his and 
her face was white. To take 
her mind off their problem, he 
ambled toward the lighted shop 
windows. 

“Look at that sign,” he said, 
pointing to a poster over a dis- 
play of neckties. “ ‘Sleek neck- 
sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!’ 
How do they expect to sell stuff 
with that crazy lingo?” 

“It’s jive talk. They must cater 
to the high-school crowd.” Ann 
glanced nervously at the strolling 
people around them. “Jeff, where 
are we? This isn’t any part of the 
city I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t even 
look much like America.” Her 
voice rose. “The way the women 
are dressed — it’s not old-fash- 
ioned, just different.” 

“Baby, don’t be scared. This is 
an adventure. Let’s have fun.” He 
pressed her hand soothingly and 
pulled her toward a lunch coun- 
ter. 

If the haberdasher’s sign was 
jive, the restaurant spoke the 
same jargon. The signs on the 
wall and the bill of fare were 
baffling. Jeff pondered the list of 
beef shingles, scorchers, smack 
sticks and fruit chills, until he 
noticed that a couple at the coun- 

62 



ter were eating what clearly were 
hamburgers — though the “buns” 
looked more like tortillas. 

Jeff jerked his thumb at them 
and told the waitress, “Two, 
please.” 

When the sandwiches arrived, 
they were ordinary enough. He 
and Ann ate in silence. A feeling 
of foreboding hung over them. 

When they finished, the clerk 
gave him a check marked 1/20. 
Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, 
shrugged and handed it to the 
cashier with two dollar bills. 

The man at the desk glanced at 
them and laughed. “Stage money, 
eh?” 

“No, that’s good money,” Jeff 
assured him with a rather hollow 
smile. “They’re just new bills, 
that’s all.” 

The cashier picked one up and 
looked at it curiously. “I’m afraid 
it’s no good here,” he said, and 
pushed it back. 

The bottom dropped out of 
Jeff’s stomach. “What kind of 
money do you want? This is all I 
have.” 

The cashier’s smile faded. He, 
caught the eye of a man in uni- 
form on one of the stools. The 
uniform was dark green, but the 
man acted like a policeman. He 
loomed up beside Jeff. 

“What’s the rasper?” he de- 
manded. Other customers, wait- 
ing to pay their checks, eyed Jeff 
curiously. 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“I guess I’m in trouble,” Jeff 
told him. “I’m a stranger here and 
I got something to eat imder the 
impression that my money was 
legal tender. Do you know where 
I can exchange it?” 

officer picked up the dol- 
-*■ lar bill and fingered it with 
evident interest. He turned it over 
and studied the printing. “United 
States of America,” he read aloud. 
“What are those?” 

“It’s the name of the country I 
come from,” Jeff said carefully. 
“I — uh — got on the wrong train, 
apparently, and must have come 
further than I thought. What’s the 
name of this place?” 

“This is Costa, West Goodland, 
in the Continental Federation. 
Say, you must come from an 
umpty remote part of the world 
if you don’t know about this .coun- 
try.” His eyes narrowed. “Where’d 
you learn to speak Federal, if you 
come from so far?” 

Jeff said helplessly, “I can’t ex- 
plain, if you don’t know about the 
United States. Listen, can you 
take me to a bank, or some place 
where they know about foreign 
exchange?” 

The policeman scowled. “How’d 
you get into this country, any- 
way? You got immigrate clear- 
ance?” 

An angry muttering started 
among the bystanders. 

The policeman made up his 



mind. “You come with me.” 

At the police station, Jeff put 
his elbows dejectedly on the high 
coimter while the policeman 
talked to an officer in charge. 
Some men whom Jeff took for re- 
porters got up from a table and 
eased over to listen. 

“I don’t know whether to charge 
them with fakemake, bumsy, 
peekage or Ivinate,” the policeman 
said as he finished. 

His superior gave Jeff a long 
puzzled stare. 

Jeff sighed. “I know it sounds 
impossible, but a man brought me 
in something he claimed was a 
time traveler. You speak the same 
language I do — more or less — but 
everything else is kind of unfa- 
miliar. I belong in the United 
States, a country in North Amer- 
ica. I can’t believe I’m so far in 
the future that the United States 
has been forgotten.” 

There ensued a long, confused, 
inconclusive interrogation. 

The man behind the desk asked 
questions which seemed stupid to 
Jeff and got answers which prob- 
ably seemed stupid to him. 

The reporters quizzed Jeff glee- 
fully. “Come out, what are you 
advertising?” they kept asking. 
“Who got you up to this?” 

The police puzzled over his 
driver’s license and the other 
cards in his wallet. They asked re- 
peatedly about the lack of a 
“Work License,” which Jeff took 



BUTTERFLY 9 



63 



to be some sort of union card. 
Evidently there was grave doubt 
that he had any legal right to be 
in the country. 

In the end, Jeff and Ann were 
locked in separate cells for the 
night. Jeff groaned and pounded 
the bars as he thought of his wife, 
imprisoned and alone in a smelly 
jail. After hours of pacing the 
cell, he lay down in the cot and 
reached automatically for his sil- 
ver pillbox. Then he hesitated. 

In past weeks, his insomnia had 
grown worse and worse, so that 
lately he had begun taking 
stronger pills. After a longing 
glance at the big red and yellow 
capsules, he put the box away. 
Whatever tomorrow brought, it 
wouldn’t find him slow and 
drowsy. 

IV 

XTE passed a wakeful night. 

In the early morning, he 
looked up to see a little man with 
a briefcase at his cell door. 

“Wish joy, Mr. Elliott,” the 
man said coolly. “I am one of Mr. 
Bullen’s barmen. You know, rep- 
resent at law? He sent me to ar- 
range your release, if you are 
ready to be reasonable.” 

Jeff lay there and put his hands 
behind his head. “I doubt if I’m 
ready. I’m comfortable here. By 
the way, how did you know where 
I was?” 

64 



“No problem. When we read in 
this morning’s newspapers about 
a man claiming to be a time trav- 
eler, we knew.” 

“All right. Now start explain- 
ing. Until I understand where I 
am, Bullen isn’t getting me out of 
here.” 

The lawyer smiled and sat 
down. “Mr. Kersey told you yes- 
terday — you’ve gone back six 
years. But you’ll need some men- 
tal gymnastics to understand. 
Time is a dimension, not a stream 
of events like a movie film. A film 
never changes. Space does— and 
time does. For example, if a 
movie showed a burning house at 
Sixth and Main, would you ex- 
pect to find a house burning 
whenever you returned to that 
corner?” 

“You mean to say that if I 
went back to 1865, I wouldn’t 
find the Civil War was over and 
Lincoln had been assassinated?” 
“If you go back to fhe time you 
call 1865 — which is most easily 
done — you will find that the peo- 
ple there know nothing of a Lin- 
coln or that war.” 

Jeff looked blank. “What are 
they doing then?” 

The little man spread his 
hands. ‘What are the people do- 
ing now at Sixth and Main? Cer- 
tainly not the same things they 
were doing the day of the fire. 
We’re talking about a dimension, 
not an event. Don’t you grasp the 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



difference between the two?” 
“Nope. To me, 1865 means the 
end of the Civil War. How else 
can you speak of a point in time 
except by the events that hap- 
pened then?” 

“Well, if you go to a place in 
three-dimensional space — say, a 
lake in the mountains — how do 
you identify that place? By look- 
ing for landmarks. It doesn’t mat- 
ter that an eagle is soaring over a 
mountain peak. That’s only an 
event. The peak is the landmark. 
You follow me?” 

“So far. Keep talking.” 

' I ’’HE little man looked pleased. 

“Very well. In the fourth di- 
mension — which is time — you do 
the same thing. You look around 
to see what is visible where you 
are. My contemporaries can see 
that freedom is unnecessary, that 
time travel is practical. Your peo- 
ple have not reached that place in 
time yet. But yours can see the 
technical facts about color televi- 
sion. Those facts are not visible 
yet to anyone here.” 

“You mean that these inven- 
tions — ” 

“Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Elliott,” the 
little man said indignantly. “Don’t 
call them inventions. There are 
no inventions. None. There are 
only truths — scientific principles 
waiting through eternity for some- 
one to discover them.” 

“I must be dense, but — ” 



“Did your Columbus invent 
America? Did someone invent 
fire? The possibility of time 
travel, of color television, of any 
phase of social progress — these 
are facts. They stand up in the 
time dimension like mountains. 
Waves of humanity meander 
through the time dimension like 
caravans of immigrants crossing a 
continent. The first man in any 
wave to see the mountain peak 
claims that he ‘invented’ it. Soon 
it is clearly visible to everyone. 
While the people of my wave 
know of time travel, there are hu- 
man caravans, following us many 
years back in time, just now dis- 
covering steam.” 

“Then the reason your people 
won’t accept my money—” 
“Yah.” The little lawyer nodded. 
“Your money is an outgrowth of 
your history. It bears the name 
your people gave to the society 
they built — the United States. 
This has no meaning to a differ- 
ent wave of humanity, with a 
different history. These people 
here have reached this point in 
time six years behind the human- 
ity you traveled with.” 

“Can I get back to my own 
time, my own wave of humanity?” 
“Not unless you know how.” 
The lawyer grinned. “To be per- 
fectly frank, Mr. Elliott, there is 
no hope of your going back. 
Either work for Bullen or live out 
your life in a mental institution. 



■UTTERFLY 9 



45 



No one else will give you work 
and no one will believe your 
story.” 

Jeff clamped his teeth. If a 
crook like Snader could move 
freely back and forth in time, 
there must be a way for Jeff to 
do it. Meanwhile, he would pre- 
tend to be a humble and obedient 
servant. 

“Okay,” he said to the lawyer. 
“I’m convinced. Get me out.” 
“Snader is waiting with a car,” 
the man said. “He’ll meet you 
and your wife outside. I’ll free her 
at once, then go about my busi- 
ness.” 

C NADER was standing beside 
the limousine. He looked Ann 
up and down. “I like you, little 
lady. Soon I know you better.” 
Jeff felt his temper rise. “You 
sure fooled us, didn’t you, 
Snader?” 

“I warned you. There was risk.” 
Ann’s voice was steady. “Jeff, 
where are we going now?” 

“Back to Bullen. I understand 
the setup now. Maybe we’d better 
play ball with him.” 

“Did you find out what place 
this is?” 

“Yes — well, sort of. Here’s a 
rough rundown. Incredible as it 
seems, we really are in a past 
time period — different from our 
own past. This period doesn’t 
have color TV yet. Bullen wants 
to be first on the market with it. 

66 



So he sent our pal Greet Snader 
here to pick a man in future time 
who had already mastered TV 
and sell him to Bullen as a cap- 
tive scientist. I imagine Snader 
raids the future for many ex- 
perts.” 

Snader stepped up to him with 
a dangerous smile. “All right, big 
wit. Tell me my business. Tell me 
all about it.” 

“You heard me. You’re in the 
slave business.” The blood 
throbbed in Jeff’s head. 

“You don’t like?” Snader’s 
scarred face looked fierce and 
gloating. “Maybe you shovel coal 
from now. Or wipe floors.” 

Jeff -saw policemen watching 
from the jail entrance. He clamped 
his mouth shut. 

“Don’t be excitable or you get 
hurt,” Snader advised. “’We own 
you. We gave you a break. Re- 
member that, wise boy. You 
ready now?” 

Jeff nodded silently. 

Snader playfully twisted Jeff’s 
ear and shoved him into the lim- 
ousine. “Don’t tell me anything. 
Then I don’t hurt you.” 

V 

TJETWEEN Snader and Ann in 
the front seat, Jeff held 
Ann’s hand and winked encour- 
agingly at her. 

“Snader, I guess you’re right,” 
he said. “This is a good deal for 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



me. I was sort of washed up in 
my own time.” 

“Now you smart,” Snader said. 
“Your little lady? She smart, 
too?” 

“Yep. By the way, how come 
you got us out so early? It’s only 
nine o’clock. Bullen said he’d ex- 
pect me at eleven.” 

“We go to time station first,” 
Snader explained shortly. “I pick 
up documents there. Breakfast 
there.” 

“Good,” Jeff said cheerfully. A 
plan was taking shape in his 
mind. “All I’m worried about is 
my speed-up pills. Can I get some 
at the station? I’m almost out.” 
He pressed Ann’s knee warningly. 

“Speed-up pills?” Snader looked 
suspicious — but then, he always 
did. “What you mean?” 

“Don’t you have speed-up tab- 
lets?” Jeff put surprise in his 
voice. “Stuff to activate the half 
of the brain that normally doesn’t 
work. You must have them.” 
“What they look like?” 

Jeff fumbled for his silver pill- 
box. “They’re the big red and 
yellow capsules.” He handed the 
box to Snader. “Don’t spill them. 
I only have three left. Where can 
I get more like those? I won’t be 
nearly as good without them.” 
Keeping one hand on the 
wheel, Snader glanced down. The 
box had a jumble of black vita- 
min pills and red and yellow 
sleeping tablets. 



“You say these big ones help 
brain?” he asked warily. 

“They speed up the reflexes— 
they make everything seem clear 
and easy. Please give them back 
before you spill them.” 

Snader thumbed the red and 
yellow capsules out and handed 
the box back without them. “I 
keep these.” He moved his head 
craftily to watch Jeff’s face in 
the mirror. 

Jeff was ready. He registered 
rage and fear. “Gimme those!” he 
shouted. “I need them.” 

Snader laughed. “Don’t tell me 
orders. Easy now. You want to 
wreck car?” 

“I’ll wreck us all if you don’t 
give those back!” He grabbed 
Snader’s hand. 

Ann screamed as the car 
swerved, and horns blared from 
behind. Snader clapped the cap- 
sules into his mouth and gripped 
the wheel with both hands. 

“I take what I want,” he said, 
gulping down the pills. “You give 
trouble, I turn you over to police.” 

J EFF slumped down with a 
groan and buried his face in 
his hands to hide a grin. It had 
worked. How long would the nem- 
butal take to hit Snader? It might 
act too fast. Jeff wondered what 
he could do then. 

Luckily, there was only a short 
distance to go. Even so, the car 
was weaving as they whirled off 



BUTTERFLY 9 



67 




the express road into Green Thru- 
Way. When they pulled up in 
front of the barred house, Snader 
tumbled out and lurched up the 
walk without a glance at his pris- 
oners. 

Jeff and Ann followed, and Jeff 
stood close behind while Snader 
fumbled inside his shirt for the 
key. When he found it and 
reached toward the door, his 
knees buckled and Jeff caught 
him. 

“The key, Ann,” Jeff whispered. 
“Pull the cord over his head and 
unlock the door.” 

Ann clawed at it while Jeff 
supported the weight of Snader’s 
body. In a moment, she had the 
door open and they were inside. 

The old housekeeper bustled in 
as Jeff half-dragged and half- 
lifted Snader across the living 
room. 

“It’s nothing serious,” Jeff told 
her calmly. “He often has these 
attacks. He’ll be all right in a few 
minutes, and then I’ll start him 
off home.” 

“Oh, the poor man,” she clucked. 
“Such a ghast. Can I get you 
anything?” 

“Get us some hot water, mixed 
with mustard and soda,” Jeff said, 
hoping this would keep her busy 
for several minutes. She hurried 
away. 

Ann unlocked the door into the 
inner room and Jeff lugged the 
slave trader inside. On the two 



screens, the endless chair-lined 
corridors still fled toward them. 

When the door clicked shut, 
Jeff let Snader slide to the floor. 
Swiftly he went through the 
man’s pockets and felt in the lin- 
ing of his clothes for hidden docu- 
ments. Papers, wallet, car-keys, a 
big stiff card that seemed to be 
some kind of passport— Jeff 
stuffed everything into his own 
pockets. 



68 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 





“Hurry, Jeff,” Ann begged. 
“Why waste time emptying his 
pockets?” 

“So he can’t come back and 
bother us,” Jeff said. “I’m sending 
this joker on a one-way ride. He’ll 
never be able to prove to the 
authorities who he is.” 

O EVERAL pictures hung on the 
^ wall. Jeff jerked them down 
and used the wire to tie Snader’s 



feet and wrists. He tore some 
draperies to bind him tighter. 
When the body was trussed like 
a turkey, Jeff heaved it to his 
shoulder. With one lunge, he threw 
the unconscious man straight into 
the screen. Snader vanished. 

“What happens when he wakes 
up?” Ann shakily wanted to 
know. 

Jeff dusted himself off. “He’s 
headed to the end of the line,” he 



BUTTERFLY 9 



69 



said harshly. “Remember? He 
told us about it. Without creden- 
tials, he’ll land in the convict 
gang, down around the year 600 
A.D. That’s a bad time on this con- 
tinent. Men who work there don’t 
return — they help build back the 
time groove.” 

Ann smiled triumphantly. 
“Good for you! He deserved it. 
Imagine running a commercial 
kidnaping enterprise! And now 
we can ride home, can’t we?” 

Jeff, beginning to enjoy himself, 
shook his head. “Not just yet. 
First I’ve got a date with Mr. 
Bullen.” 

When they rapped on Bullen’s 
door. Kersey welcomed them with 
an amused smile. 

“We thought you would be 
back,” he purred. “Where is 
Snader?” 

Jeff brushed past him to the 
drawing room, where Bullen sat 
by the window. 

“I’ve decided to help you, Bul- 
len,” Jeff said. 

Bullen nodded his big head. 
“Naturally.” 

“But I name my own price. 
What do you pay Kersey?” 

Bullen looked up with a grim 
smile. “Fifty thousand a year. I 
wonder now if he worths it.” 

“What’s that? Dollars?” 

“We call them fiscals. Probably 
somehow much the same. Why?” 

“Listen, Bullen. If I help intro- 
duce color TV, there’ll be big 

70 



money in it. I won’t be a hog. You 
pay me forty thousand a year un- 
til we go into production. Then 
we’ll make a new deal, giving me 
a royalty on sales.” 

Kersey’s face was scarlet. “You 
young greenshoot! Who do you 
think you are? You’ll work for 
nothing, if we say so.” 

“Guess again,” Jeff said. “Your 
slave trader won’t be bringing any 
more engineers for you. So you 
take me at my price — or nobody.” 
The big man laughed. “You got 
rid of Snader, eh? Well, well. He 
was a rogue. I thought he would 
run into trouble soon or late.” 

l^ERSEY swore, but Bullen 
seemed to grasp the situa- 
tion and waved him to silence. “I 
like your fire, young man. With 
chromatics, we’ll make millions, 
so you’re worth forty thousand 
plus royalties. Am I true in think- 
ing you won’t want the apartment 
I reserved for you?” 

“Right. We’ll retain our home 
in my own time. I’ll commute to 
work here every morning — it’s 
quicker than commuting to the 
city in my own time.” 

“In your thorough way,” Ker- 
sey said sarcastically, “you have 
doubtless figured out how you 
can spend our money back in 
your time.” 

“I’ve thought about it,” Jeff 
agreed. “There will be something 
I can convert it into and carry 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



back. Diamonds, maybe.” 

Bullen laughed again. “You’re 
solid, my boy. Get his work pa- 
pers ready. Kersey. These young 
people want to get home. I’ll take 
Jeff to the factory when he comes 



workward in the morning.” 

Jeff stood up. “See you tomor- 
row, Bullen. Come on, Ann. We’re 
going home — home to our own 
time.” 

—DONALD KEITH 



★ ★* ★ ★ ★ 



FORECAST 

When we started Galaxy, we had no idea that the name had been 
used by a 19th century magazine. An excellent magazine, by the way. 
Though our fields are different — it was a general publication — we are 
operating on the premise that one of its most famous authors, Mark 
Twain, laid down in its pages: Ducking out of a dull gathering, he 
explained that he had an appointment with a friend at the poorhouse 
— a former publisher who put out a newspaper that nobody disagreed 
with! 

Never one to repeat that mistake. Galaxy this month features 
MY LADY GREENSLEEVES, a deceptively politely titled novella 
by Frederik Pohl that we hope will cause some good, healthy scraps. 
Extrapolating from a trend that began in prehistory, Pohl reaches this 
point in the future: When a prison-guard captain smells trouble, you 
can bet trouble is going to come — for a nose for trouble is just one 
of the very many talents that this society singlemindedly breeds! 

You will also meet a nimble newcomer, Stephen Barr, whose 
I AM A NUCLEUS is a fast-stepping novelet that does not slow 
down even after it finishes! There is no doubt whatever about it, the 
hero of Barr’s tricky, intriguing, immensely tense story has the Indian 
sign on him — his comfortably untidy world has suddenly turned into 
a monstrosity of order! 

Accompanying at least another novelet and several short stories, 
Willy Ley brings us right up to the last second of the minute with 
exactly what it is that stands BETWEEN US AND SPACE TRAVEL. 



BUTTERFLY 9 



71 




By FREDERIK POHL 



With Horn's invention, we had 
the world by the tail, by Gad 
... or was that our own tail? 



W ELL, we moved in 
pretty promptly. This 
Van Pelt turned up at 
the Pentagon on a Thursday, and 
by the following Monday, I had a 
task force of a hundred and thir- 
ty-five men with full supply biv- 
ouacked arovmd the old man’s 
establishment. 



He didn’t like it. I rather ex- 
pected he wouldn’t. He came 
storming out of the big house as 
the trucks came in. “Get out of 
here! Go on, get out! This is pri- 
vate property and you’re trespass- 
ing. I won’t have it, do you hear 
me? Get out!” 

I stepped out of the jeep and 



Illustrated by GAUGHAN 



72 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



gave him a soft salute. “Colonel 
Windermere, sir. My orders are 
to establish a security cordon 
around your laboratories. Here 
you are, sir — your copy of the 
orders.” 

He scowled and fussed and fi- 
nally snatched the orders out of 
my hand. Well, they were signed 
by General Follansbee himself, so 
there wasn’t much argument. I 
stood by politely, prepared to 
make matters as painless for him 
as I could. I don’t hold with an- 
tagonizing civilians imnecessarily. 
But he evidently didn’t want it to 
be painless. 

“Van Pelt!” he bellowed. “Why, 
that rotten, decrepit, back-stab- 
bing monster of a — ” 

I listened attentively. He was 
very good. What he was saying, 
in essence, was that he felt his 
former associate. Van Pelt, had 
had no right to report to the Pen- 
tagon that there was potential 
military applicability in the Horn 
Effect. Of course, it was the trim- 
mings with which he stated his 
complaint that made it so effec- 
tive. 

I finally had to interrupt him. 
“Dr. Horn, the general asked me 
to give you his personal assurance 
that we will not in any way inter- 
fere with your work here. It is 
only a matter of security. I’m sure 
you understand the importance of 
security, sir.” 

“Security! Now listen here, 

THE HAUNTED CORPSE 



Lieuenant, I won’t tolerate — ” 
“Colonel, sir. Lieutenant Colo- 
nel Windermere.” 

“Colonel, general, lieutenant, 
what the hell do I care? Listen to 
me! The Horn Effect is my per- 
sonal property, not yours, not Van 
Pelt’s, not the government’s, not 
anybody’s but mine! I was work- 
ing in personality dissociation be- 
fore you were born and — ” 

“Security, sir!” I made it 
crackle. 

TTE LOOKED at me pop-eyed 
and I nodded toward my 
driver. 

“He isn’t cleared. Dr. Horn,” I 
explained. “All right, O’Hare. 
You’re dismissed.” 

Sergeant O’Hare saluted from 
behind the wheel and took off. 

I said soothingly: “Now, Dr. 
Horn, I want you to know that 
I’m here to help you. If there’s 
anything you want, just ask; I’ll 
get it. Even if you want to go into 
town, that can be arranged. Of 
course, you’d better give us twen- 
ty-four hours’ notice so we can 
arrange a route and—” 

He said briefly: “Young man, 
go to the devil.” And he turned 
and stalked into the big house. I 
watched him and I remember 
thinking that, for a lean old goat 
of eighty or eighty-five, he had a 
lot of spirit. 

I went about my business and 
Dr. Horn picked up the phone in 

73 



his house and demanded the Pen- 
tagon to protest our being here. 
When he finally realized he was 
talking to our intercept monitor, 
and that no calls would go out on 
his line without authorization 
from me, he yelled up another 
storm. 

But naturally that wasn’t go- 
ing to get him an3nwhere. Not 
when General Follansbee himself 
had signed the orders. 

About oh - eight - hundred the 
next morning, I ran a surprise 
full-scale inspection and simu- 
lated infiltration to keep the de- 
tachment on its toes. It all 
checked out perfectly. I had de- 
tailed Sergeant O’Hare to try to 
sneak in from the marshland 
south of the old man’s place, and 
he was spotted fifty yards from 
the perimeter. When he reported 
to me, he was covered with mud 
and shaking. 

“Those trigger-happy ba— those 
guards, sir, nearly blew my head 
off. If the officer of the day hadn’t 
happened by, I think they would 
of done it, only he recognized 
me.” 

“All right, Sergeant.” I dis- 
missed him and went in to break- 
fast. The wire-stringing detail had 
worked all night and we were now 
surrounded with triple-strand 
electrified barbwire, with an outer 
line of barbwire chevaux-de-frise. 
There were guard towers every 
fifty yards and at the corners, and 

74 



a construction detail was clearing 
the brush for an additional twenty 
yards outside the wire. I thought 
briefly of bulldozing a jeep-path 
in the cleared area for permanent 
rotating patrols, but it didn’t 
really seem necessary. 

I was rather hungry and a lit- 
tle sleepy — that wire-stringing de- 
tail had made quite a lot of noise. 
But on the whole, I was pleased, 
if a little irritable. 

' I ’HE O.D. phoned in for in- 
structions while I was break- 
fasting; Van Pelt had arrived 
from town and the O.D. wouldn’t 
let him in without my approval. I 
authorized it, and in a moment 
Van Pelt turned up in my private 
mess, looking simultaneously wor- 
ried and jubilant. 

“How’d he take it. Colonel?” he 
asked. “Is he — I mean is he sore?” 

“Very.” 

“Oh.” Van Pelt quivered 
slightly, then shrugged. “Well, 
you’re here, so I guess he won’t 
try anything.” He looked hungrily 
at my buckwheat cakes and sau- 
sages. “I, uh, didn’t get a chance 
to have breakfast on the way 
down — ” 

“Be my guest. Dr. Van Pelt.” I 
ordered another place set and 
extra portions of everything. He 
ate it all — God knows how. Look- 
ing at him, you’d think he could 
march two hundred miles on the 
stored fat he already had. He 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



wasn’t much over five-six, perhaps 
five-seven, and I’d guess two hun- 
dred and eighty pounds bone-dry. 
He was about as unlike Dr. Horn 
as you could imagine. 

I wondered how they had got 
along, working together — but I 
already knew the answer. They 
got along badly, else Van Pelt 
never would have gone running to 
the Pentagon. I tried to keep an 
open mind about that,' of course. 
I mean General Follansbee 
thought it was important to na- 
tional defense, and so on — 

But I couldn’t help thinking 
how I would feel if some junior 
went over my head in that way. 
Military discipline is one thing, 
and civilian affairs, as I under- 
stand it, are something else, but 
all the same — 

Anyway, he had done it and 
here we were. Not much like a 
fighting command for me, but or- 
ders are orders. , 

At fourteen hundred, I paid a 
call on Dr. Horn. 

He looked up as the clerk-typ- 
ist corporal and I came in. He 
didn’t say anything, just stood up 
and pointed to the door. 

I said: “Good afternoon. Dr. 
Horn. If this is an inconvenient 
time for you to make your daily 
progress report, just say the word. 
I’m here to help you, you know. 
Would from twelve to thirteen 
hundred every day be more satis- 
factory? Or in the morning?” 

THE HAUNTED CORPSE 



“Every day?” 

“That’s right, sir. Perhaps you 
didn’t notice Paragraph Eight of 
my orders. General Follansbee’s 
instructions were to—” 

He interrupted me with a dis- 
respectful comment on General 
Follansbee, but I pretended not 
to hear. Besides, he might have 
been right. 

I said: “As a starter, sir, per- 
haps you’ll be good enough to 
show us around the laboratories. 
I think you’ll find that Corporal 
McCabe will be able to take your 
words down at normal speed.” 
“Take what words down?” 
“Your progress report, sir. What 
you’ve accomplished in the past 
twenty-four hours. Only this time, 
of course, we’d better have a fill- 
in on everything to date.” 

He roared: “No! I won’t! I ab- 
solutely will not!” 

¥ WAS prepared for that. I let 
him roar. When he was 
through roaring, I put it to him 
very simply. I said: “That’s the 
way it’s going to be.” 

He stuttered and gagged. “Why, 
you stinking little two-bit Army — 
Listen, what’s the idea — ” 

He stopped and looked at me, 
frowning. I was glad that he 
stopped, since in the confidential 
section of my orders— the para- 
graphs I didn’t show Dr. Horn, as 
he was not cleared for access to 
such material— there had been a 

7S 




76 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



paragraph which was relevant 
here. 

Van Pelt had told the general 
that Horn’s health was not good. 
Apoplexy, I believe — I am not 
very familiar with medical terms. 
At any rate, Van Pelt, while be- 
ing de-briefed by the general’s 
intelligence section, had reported 
that the old man might drop dead 
at any minute. Well, he looked it, 
at least when he was mad. I cer- 
tainly didn’t want him to drop 
dead before I had made a proper 
Situation Analysis, for which I 
needed his report. 

Horn sat down. He said, with 
rusty craft: “You’re going to stick 
to what you say?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then,” he said, with a pa- 
thetic, senile cunning, “I suppose 
I must reconcile myself to the 
situation. Exactly what is it you 
want. Lieutenant?” 

“The report, sir.” 

He nodded briefly. “Just so.” 
Ah-ha, I thought — to myself, of 
course — this will prove interest- 
ing. Do you suppose he will try 
to win my confidence so he can 
phone his Congressman? Or 
merely get me to turn my back 
so he can clobber me over the 
head? 

“Yes, yes, the report. Just so,” 
he said, staring thoughtfully at a 
machine of some kind. It rather 
resembled an SCR-784, the Mark 
XII model, the one that has some- 



thing to do with radar, or radio, 
something electronic. I leave that 
sort of thing to the Signal Corps- 
men, naturally. I have my job and 
they have theirs. “Just so,” he re- 
peated. “Well, I shall have to do 
as you wish. Observe,” he said, 
rising, “my polycloid quasitron. 
As you see—” 

There was a strangling noise 
from Corporal McCabe. I looked 
at him; he was in difficulties. 

“Sir,” I interrupted the doctor, 
“will you spell that, please?” 

He chuckled rather grimly. 
“Just so. P-O-L-Y-C-L-O-I-D 
Q-U-A-S-I-T-R-O-N. Well, Lieu- 
tenant, you’re familiar with the 
various potentiometric studies of 
the brain which — Perhaps I 
should begin further back. The 
brain, you must realize, is essen- 
tially an electrical device. Poten- 
tiometer studies have shown — ” 

VERY thirty to fifty seconds, 
he glanced at me, and turned 
his head half to one side, and 
waited. And I said, “I see,” and he 
said, “Just so,” and he went on. 
Corporal McCabe was in acute 
distress, of course, but I rather en- 
joyed the exposition; it was rest- 
ful. One learns to make these 
things restful, you see. One 
doesn’t spend as much time as I 
have in staff meetings without 
learning a few lessons in survival 
tactics. 

When he had entirely finished 



THE HAUNTED CORPSE 



77 



(McCabe was groaning softly to 
himself), I summed it all up for 
him. 

“In other words, sir, you’ve per- 
fected a method of electronically 
killing a man without touching 
him.” 

For some reason, that rocked 
Dr. Horn. 

He stared at me. “Electroni- 
cally,” he said after a moment. 
“Killing. A man. Without. Touch- 
ing. Him.” 

“That’s what I said, sir,” I 
agreed. 

“Just so, just so.” He cleared 
his throat and took a deep breath. 
“Lieutenant, will you tell me one 
thing? What in the sweet name 
of heaven did I say that gave you 
that particular stupid notion?” 

I could hardly believe my ears. 
“Why — why, that’s what the gen- 
eral said. Dr. Horn! And he talked 
to Van Pelt, you realize.” 

I wondered; Was that his little 
trick? Was he trying to pretend 
the weapon wouldn’t work? 

He raved for twenty-five sec- 
onds about Van Pelt. Then he 
checked himself and looked 
thoughtful again. 

“No,” he said. “No, it can’t be 
Van Pelt. That idiot general of 
yours must be off his rocker.” 

I said formally: “Dr. Horn, do 
you state that your, ah — ” I 
glanced at McCabe; he whispered 
the name — “your polycloid quasi- 
tron does not, fSirough electronic 

78 



means, deprive a person of life at 
a distance?” 

He scowled like a maniac. It 
was almost as if something were 
physically hurting him. With an 
effort, he conceded; “Oh — yes. 
Yes, perhaps. Would you say a 
locomotive oxidizes coal into im- 
pure silicaceous aggregates? It 
does, you know — they call them 
ashes. Well, then, you could say 
that’s what the quasitron does.” 
“Well, then!” 

He said, still painfully: “All 
right. Just so. Yes, I see what you 
mean. No doubt that explains 
why you’re here. I had wondered, 
I confess. You feel this is a 
weapon.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

“Ah.” 

TTE sat down and took out a 
fat, stickily black pipe and 
began to fill it. He said cheer- 
fully: “We understand each other 
then. My machine renders hu- 
mans into corpses. A chipped flint 
will also do that — Pithecanthro- 
pus erectus discovered that quite 
indBpendently some time ago — 
but no matter, that is the aspect 
which interests you. Very good.” 
He lit the pipe. “I mention,” he 
added, puffing, “that my quasitron 
does something no chipped flint 
can do. It removes that thing 
which possesses only a negative 
definition from the human body, 
the quantity that we will term 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



‘x’, which, added to the body, 
produces a man, subtracted from 
it, leaves a corpse. You don’t care 
about this.” 

He had me going for a moment, 
I admit. I said briskly; “Sir, I’m 
afraid I don’t understand you.” 

“You’re bloody well told you 
don’t understand me!” he howled. 
“We’re all corpses, don’t you un- 
derstand? Corpses inhabited by 
ghosts! And there’s only one man 
in the world who can separate 
the two without destroying them 
and that’s me. And there’s only 
one way in the world to do it and 
that’s with my quasitron! Lieu- 
tenant, you’re a stupid, pig- 
headed man! I—” 

Well, enough was enough. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” I said po- 
litely, though I knew he couldn’t 
hear what I said with his own 
voice drowning me out. I nodded 
to Corporal McCabe. He closed 
his notebook with a snap, jumped 
to open the door for me and the 
two of us left. 

There was no reason to stay, do 
you see? I already had all the 
material for my Situation Analy- 
sis. 

Just the same, I got Van Pelt 
into my private quarters that eve- 
ning. I wanted to see if I could 
make an assessment of the old 
man’s sanity. 

“He’s perfectly sane, Colonel 
Windermere. Perfectly!” Van 
Pelt’s jowls were shaking. “He’s 



dangerous — very dangerous. Par- 
ticularly dangerous to me. I mean, 
of course, if I hadn’t had your 
promise of complete protection. 
Of course. But dangerous. I — ” 

He paused, glancing at the side- 
board where the bowl of fruit (I 
always take fruit after the eve- 
ning meal) still reposed. He 
coughed. “Colonel, I wonder if — ” 

“Help yourself,” I told him. 

“Thank you, thank you! My, 
but that looks good! Honestly, 
Colonel Windermere, I feel that 
an apple is almost Nature’s rarest 
treat. Well, pears, yes. I must say 
that pears — ” 

I said: “Dr. Van Pelt, excuse 
me. I want the straight dope on 
Horn. What’s this ghost busi- 
ness?” 

He looked at me blankly, 
crunching. “Ghost business?” He 
took another bite. Crunch, crunch. 
“My goodness. Colonel — ” crunch, 
crunch — “Colonel Windermere, I 
don’t know — Oh, the ^host busi- 
ness!” Crunch. “Oh, that. Why, 
that’s just Dr. Horn’s way of put- 
ting it. You know his manner. 
You see, there is a difference be- 
tween a living man and a dead 
man, and that difference is what 
Dr. Horn whimsically terms a 
‘ghost.’” He chuckled, tossed the 
core into my wastebasket and 
took another apple. “Call it life, 
plus intelligence, plus soul, if 
there is such a word in your lexi- 
con, Colonel — Dr. Horn merely 



THE HAUNTED CORPSE 



79 



sums them up and terms the total 
‘ghost.’” 

T PRESSED him closely. “This 
machine is a — a ghost con- 
jurer?” 

“No, no!” he cried, nearly losing 
his temper. “Colonel, don’t per- 
mit yourself to be fooled. Dr. 
Horn is an arrogant, unprincipled 
man, but he is not an ass or a 
faker. Forget the term ghost, since 
it distresses you. Think of— think 
of-” 

He searched for words, 
shrugged. “Think merely of the 
difference between being alive 
and being dead. It is that differ- 
ence that Dr. Horn’s machine 
works on. Life, intelligence — elec- 
trical phenomena, you under- 
stand? And Dr. Horn drains them 
from the body, stores them — can, 
if he wishes, replace them, or even 
put them in another body.” He 
nodded, beamed at me, bit into 
the second apple. Crunch, crunch, 
crunch. 

Well, sir! 

When I had got rid of him, I 
sat, trying to control my temper, 
for some time. 

This strange old man had a ma- 
chine that could take a mind right 
out of a body — yes, and put it in 
another body! 

Confound them, why hadn’t 
they said so instead of beating 
around the bush? 

Naturally, I didn’t believe it 



until I saw it — and then I saw it. 
The next morning, at my request. 
Dr. Horn put a hen and a cocker 
spaniel into what he called his 
polycloid quasitron and exchanged 
them. 

Then I believed. I saw the hen 
trying to wag its tail and the 
spaniel, whimpering, its snout 
bruised, endeavoring to peck corn. 

Corporal McCabe’s eyes were 
popping out of his head. He 
started to write something, glanced 
at me, shook his head slowly and 
sat staring into space. 

Well, time for him later. I said: 
“You can do it, Dr. Horn. You can 
take a hen and put it into a 
cocker spaniel and vice versa.” 

He nodded, too stiff-necked to 
show his gratification. “Just so, 
Lieutenant.” 

“And— and you can do it with 
people, too?” 

“Oh, indeed I can! Indeed I 
can!” He scowled. “These ridicu- 
lous laws governing the conduct 
of institutions! I’ve tried, I swear 
I’ve tried, to be permitted to con- 
duct a simple exchange. A man 
dying of terminal cancer, you see, 
and a feeble-minded youth. Why 
not? Put the sound mind in the 
sound body and let the decayed 
parts rot together! But will they 
let me?” 

“I see. Then you’ve never done 
it.” 

“Never.” He looked at me, his 
old eyes gleaming. “But now 



•0 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



you’re here, Lieutenant. A mili- 
tary man. Very brave, eh? All I’ve 
needed is a volunteer. That cow- 
ard Van Pelt refused, my gar- 
dener refused, everyone has re- 
fused! But you—” 

“Negative, sir!” Confound the 
man’s arrogance! “I am not a lieu- 
tenant. I am a field-grade officer! 
I don’t imagine you appreciate 
the investment our service has in 
me!” 

“But, Lieutenant, the impor- 
tance — ” 

“Negative, sir!” 

^T^HE man’s stupidity amazed 
me. Me, a lieutenant colonel! 
What would it do to my 201 file? 
What about my time in grade? 
The Pentagon would rock, liter- 
ally rock! 

I said, trying to be calm: “You 
don’t understand military matters. 
Dr. Horn. I assure you, if there is 
a need for volunteers, we will find 
them for you. Believe me, sir, we 
are here to help! Why, one of our 
enlisted men will be pleased — 
proud, sir! — to offer his services 
in this — Corporal McCabe! Come 
back here!” 

But it was too late. Moaning, 
he had fled the room. 

I turned to Dr. Horn, a little 
embarrassed. “Well, sir, we under- 
stand these things — a shock to 
the boy, of course. But I’ll find you 
a volunteer. Trust me.” 

The man was as pleased as a 



fourth-year cadet in June Week, 
but he still wouldn’t show it. 
Stiffly, he said: “Just so, Lieuten- 
ant-Major, I mean. Or Captain. 
Tomorrow will do splendidly.” 

Tomorrow! That wonderful 
day! For I saw Dr. Horn do just 
as he had promised and I — I 
alone among them all — I saw 
what it meant. A weapon? Non- 
sense, it was much, much more 
than that! 

There was the matter of finding 
volunteers. Trust me for that, as 
I had told Dr. Horn. 

There was the latrine orderly 
in Able Company— AW OL, and 
when I explained to him what a 
court-martial would do, he volun- 
teered with blinding speed. Didn’t 
even ask what he was volunteer- 
ing for. 

We needed two. My executive 
officer, I am proud to say, volun- 
teered to be the second. A coura- 
geous man, typical of the very 
best leadership type. 

We arrived in Dr. Horn’s lab- 
oratory. The men were strapped 
in place and anesthetized — at my 
request; I wanted to maintain se- 
curity, so naturally I couldn’t let 
them know what was happening. 
Just before he went under, the 
exec whispered, “Sir — no Korea?” 

“I promise. Captain,” I said sol- 
emnly, and before his eyes I 
ripped up the transfer recommen- 
dation I had written the night be- 
fore. He went to sleep happy. 



THE HAUNTED CORPSE 



81 



Biz, buzz, crackle. I don’t un- 
derstand these scientific things, 
but when the electric sparks had 
stopped flashing and the whiny, 
drony sounds had died away. Dr. 
Horn gave them each a shot of 
something, one at a time. 

The latrine orderly opened his 
eyes. I stepped before him. 
“Name, rank and serial number!” 
“Sir,” he said crisply, “Lefferts, 
Robert T., Captain, A.U.S., Serial 
Number 0-3339615!” 

Good heavens! But I made sure 
with a test question: “Where is it 
you don’t want to be transferred?” 
“Why — why, Korea, sir. Please, 
sir, not there! I’ll volunteer for 
your test. I’ll—” 

I nodded to Dr. Horn and an- 
other needle put him back to 
sleep. 

Then the body that was my 
exec. The body opened its eyes. 
“Gunnel, suh! I changin’ my mind. 
I’ll take the guardhouse, suh, 
only — ” 

“At ease!” I commanded, and 
nodded to Dr. Horn. 

There was no doubt about it. 
“You really did it.” 

He nodded. “Just so. Lieuten- 
ant. I 'really did.” 

A S HE switched them back 
again, I began to realize what 
it all meant. 

In my office, I got on the 
phone. 

“Crasih priority!” I ordered. 



“The Pentagon! General Follans- 
bee, priority and classified. Ask 
him to stand by for scrambler!” 

I slapped the field phone into 
its case. A weapon? A weapon 
was nothing by comparison. We 
had the world by the tail. I con- 
fess I was floating on a cloud of 
pure joy. I saw my eagles within 
my grasp, perhaps, in a year or 
less, my first star — there was 
nothing the Army would deny the 
officer who could give them what 
I could offer. 

A rattle and a crash, and Van 
Pelt thumped into my room, his 
face smeared, one hand clutching 
a melting chocolate bar. “Colonel 
Windermere!” he gasped. “You 
let Horn make his test! But that’s 
all he’s been waiting for! He—” 

It was unbearable. “O’Hare!” I 
roared. Sergeant O’Hare ap- 
peared, looking uncomfortable. 
“How dare you let this man in 
here without my permission? 
Don’t you realize I’m making a 
classified scrambler call to the 
Pentagon?" 

O’Hare said weakly: “Sir, he — ” 
“Get him out of here!” 
“Yessir!” The fat little man 
kicked up a fuss, but O’Hare was 
much bigger than he. Just the 
same. Van Pelt gave him a tussle. 
He was yelling something, all up- 
set, but my call to the Pentagon 
came through and I frankly didn’t 
listen. 

“General Follansbee? Winder- 



82 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



mere here, sir. Please scramble!” 
I slapped the button that scram- 
bled the call from my end. In a 
moment, I heard the general’s 
voice come through in clear, but 
anyone tapping in on the scram- 
bled circuit would hear nothing 
but electronic garbage. 

I gave him a quick, concise ac- 
count of what I had seen. He was 
irritated at first — disappointed. I 
had thought he would be. 

“Change them around. Winder- 
mere?” he complained in a high- 
pitched voice. “Why, what’s the 
use of changing them around? Do 
you see any strategic value in 
that? Might confuse them a little, 
I suppose — if we could get a cou- 
ple of the enemy commanders. 
But is that all there is to it? I was 
looking for something bigger, 
Windermere, something of more 
immediate military advantage. 
That Van Pelt must learn not to 
waste the time of high Army 
officers!” 

“General Follansbee, may I 
point out something? Suppose — 
suppose, sir, that someone way up 
top should visit the States. Sup- 
pose, for instance, that we sur- 
rounded him, him and his whole 
entourage. Switched them all. Put 
our own men in their bodies. You 
see?” 

TTE was thinking I was in- 
sane; you could tell it. “Colo- 
nel Windermere, what in the 



world are you talking about?” 

“It would work, sir,” I said per- 
suasively. “Believe me, I’ve seen 
it. But suppose we couldn’t do 
that. What about a hostile U.N. 
envoy, eh? Get him, put one of 
G-2’s operatives inside his body. 
Do you follow me, sir? No ques- 
tion about whose Intelligence 
would get the facts in a case like 
that, is there, sir? Or — maybe we 
wouldn’t want to do anything like 
that in peacetime, but what about 
in war? Take a couple of their 
prisoners, sir, put our own men in 
their bodies. Exchange the pris- 
oners!” 

Well, I went on and I won’t say 
I convinced him of anything. But 
by the time he hung up, he was 
thinking pretty hard. 

And I had an appointment to 
see him in the Pentagon the fol- 
lowing day. Once I was on the 
spot, I knew I was in, for he 
wouldn’t take the responsibility 
of passing up a thing like this 
alone. He’d call a staff meeting, 
and somewhere on the staff, 
somebody would understand. 

I could feel the stars on my 
shoulders already . . . 

“What is it, O’Hare?” I de- 
manded. 

I was becoming very irritated 
with the man. He was sticking his 
head in the door, looking very 
worried. Well, that was reason- 
able; I was quite close to giving 
him something to worry about. 



THE HAUNTED CORPSE 



S3 



“Sir, it’s that Van Pelt.” He 
swallowed and looked a little 
foolish. “I —I don’t know if he’s 
nuts or what, sir, but he says— 
he says that Dr. Horn wants to 
live forever! He says all Horn 
was waiting for was to make a 
test on a human being. I don’t 
know what he’s talking about, but 
he says that now that you’ve 
given Horn his test, sir, Horn’s 
going to grab the first man he sees 
and, uh, steal his body. Does that 
make sense, sir?” 

Did it make sense? 

I shoved him out of the way, 
stopping only to grab my side- 
arm. 

It made all the sense in the 
world. 

It was just what you’d ex- 
pect of a man like Horn — he’d 
take an invention like this and 
use it to steal other people’s bod- 
ies, to prolong his own nearly 
senile existence in a younger 
body! 

And if that happened, what 
would become of my general’s 
star? 

Oh, I knew just the way Horn’s 
mind would work. Steal a body; 
smash the machine; get away. 
Could we trace him? Impossible 
— there was no test in the world, 
no fingerprints, no eye-retina 
charts, no blood-type classifica- 
tions that could distinguish John 
Smith from Horn inhabiting John 
Smith. 

84 



It was the obvious thing to do; 
it had occurred to me at once. 

AN PELT had gone blunder- 
^ ing in, conquering his coward- 
ice. His objective was to try to 
stop Horn, I supposed, but what 
was the effect of his mad rush 
into the laboratory? Why, to fur- 
nish Horn with a body! 

And if one was not enough, 
there would be others, for there 
were the men of my own detach- 
ment, standing guard, going about 
their duties; it would not be im- 
possible for Horn to lure one in- 
side. He would not wait. No, for 
the chance that his own body 
would wear out on him in a mo- 
ment, any moment, was very 
great — old, worn, and now sub- 
ject to the pounding of a new 
hope and excitement, it might col- 
lapse at the lightest touch, like 
the bombed-out hulk of a bar- 
racks. 

So I hurried — into the building, 
through the long dark halls, into 
the room where the big polycloid 
quasitron stood — 

And I tripped over a human 
body, stumbled, fell, the gun spin- 
ning out of my hand. I scrambled 
to my hands and knees, touching 
the body — still warm, but not 
very warm. Dr. Horn! His castoff 
cocoon, abandoned! 

And before me capered and 
screeched the figure that once had 
been Van Pelt, holding a weapon. 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“Too late!” he cried. “Too late, 
Colonel Windermere!” 

Van Pelt! But it was not Van 
Pelt that lived in that fat, soft 
corpse today, I knew, for the 
Horn-in-Van-Pelt held a gun of 
his own in one hand and in the 
other a bar of metal. And with it 
he was bashing, bashing the poly- 
cloid quasitron! Bam, and show- 
ers of sparks flew from it; crash, 
and it began to glow, sag, melt. 

And he had the gun. It was a 
very difficult situation. 

But not hopeless. For we were 
not alone. 

Next to my fallen gun lay an- 
other body. Not dead, this one; 
unconscious. It was Corporal Mc- 
Cabe, struck down with a blow to 
the head. 

“Stop!” I cried, getting to my 
knees. Horn-Van Pelt turned to 
stare at me. “Stop, don’t wreck 
the machine! More depends on it 
than you can possibly realize. Dr. 
Horn. It isn’t only a matter of 
your life — trust me for that. Dr. 
Horn, I shall see that you have 
bodies, fine bodies, to hold your 
mind as long as you want it. But 
think of the safety of our coun- 
try! And think of your sacred 
duty to science!” I appealed, 
thinking of my general’s stars. 

Corporal McCabe twitched and 
stirred. 

I stood up. Horn’s carrier, Van 
Pelt, dropped his iron bar in 
alarm, switched the gun to his 

THE HAUNTED CORPSE 



right hand, stared at me. Good! 
Better at me than at McCabe. 

I said: “You must not destroy 
the machine. Dr. Horn! We need 
it.” 

“But it is destroyed already,” 
the little fat figure said stupidly, 
gesturing. “And I am not Dr. — ” 

Splat. 

McCabe’s bullet caught him at 
the base of the skull. The brain 
that had evicted Van Pelt to 
house a Horn now housed no 
one; the blubbery little figure was 
dead. 

And I was raging! 

“You fool, you idiot, you un- 
utterable ass!” I screamed at Mc- 
Cabe. “Why did you kill him? 
Wing him, yes; injure him, break 
his leg, shoot the gun out of his 
hand. But now he’s dead and the 
machine is gone!” 

And so, sadly, were my gen- 
eral’s stars. 

The corporal was looking at 
me with a most peculiar expres- 
sion. 

I got hold of myself. A life’s 
dream was gone, but there was no 
help for it now. Maybe the engi- 
neers could tinker and discover 
and rebuild — but, glancing at the 
wreck of the polycloid quasitron, 
I knew that was a dream. 

I took a deep breath. 

“All right, McCabe,” I said 
crisply. “Report to your quarters. 
I’ll talk to you later on. Right 
now, I must phone the Pentagon 

85 



and try to account for your blun- 
dering in this matter!” 



“What is it, Corporal?” I de- 
manded, annoyed. “I’m busy!” 



McCabe patted the gun fondly, “I just called in to report that 
put it on the floor and left. I re- I haven’t found quarters yet, but 
ported manfully to the general, I will soon — very far away. Lieu- 
stood at attention while he tenant.” 
chewed me out, and had just “Dr. Horn!” I gasped, 

hung up when the phone rang and “Just so. Lieutenant,” he said 

I heard McCabe’s voice at the and chuckled as he hung up. 
other end. — FREDERIK POHL 




S6 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




for your information 

By WILLY LEY 

Tracking down 
The "Sea Serpent"' 

PART II 

F or those who happened to 
miss last month’s issue, it 
will be helpful to read in 
the most condensed form possible 
what was discussed in the first 
part of this article. 

During the nineteenth century, 
probably as a direct result of a 
sharply increasing volume of 
ocean travel, reports about some- 
thing called the “sea serpent” sud- 
denly became rather frequent. 
There had been a few isolated re- 
fHjrts from earlier dates, but all 




FOR YOUR INFORMATION 



87 




the really well-authenticated and 
well-documented (as welt as un- 
explainable cases) began to come 
in following about the time of the 
Napoleonic wars. 

The climax was reached, in a 
manner of speaking, when H.M.S. 
Daedalus returned from India 
with the report that she had, quite 
some distance from the African 
coast and between the Cape of 
Good Hope and St. Helena, 
passed a “sea serpent” swimming 
in the opposite direction at close 
range. 

After this report had been pub- 
lished, others were submitted for 
publication, written by captains 
who had had similar experiences, 
but had either not bothered to 
have them published or else had 
felt it better for their reputations 
to keep their mouths shut. 

With all these people telling 
what they had seen — and mostly 
in fine weather, so that mistakes 
were virtually impossible — it was 
clearly necessary to arrive at 
some sort of explanation. That 
the oceans might conceal an ani- 
mal, even one of large size, which 
somehow had avoided capture all 
along did not seem to be a far- 
fetched idea. 

In 1892, the Dutch zoologist 
professor Dr. A. C. Oudemans 
published a big book of nearly 
600 pages which was designed to 
accomplish several things: 

One, by an exhaustive collec- 



tion of all reports, it was to prove 
that there actually is an unknown 
animal in the oceans. Two, by 
presenting all the evidence, it was 
to encourage sea captains to pay 
attention to similar occurrences. 
(More or less directly. Dr. Oude- 
mans’ book led to an order to cap- 
tains of the German merchant 
marine to have, at all times, a 
loaded camera on the bridge “in 
order to obtain photographs of 
unusual cloud and wave forma- 
tions, sea serpents, etc.”) Three, 
to make what is now called an 
educated guess at the nature of 
the unknown animal. 

in^HAT probably surprised 
” many readers most was the 
nature of this guess. Dr. Oude- 
mans declared that the sea ser- 
pent, in spite of the established 
and unfortunate name, was prob- 
ably a marine mammal. 

As to its dimensions, one could 
estimate from the various reports 
that it might be as much as a hun- 
dred feet long, equal to the length 
of the largest whales known. But 
in bulk, it was likely to be very 
considerably smaller. The com- 
parison was then made that the 
“sea serpent” bore about the same 
physical relationship to the whale 
as the giraffe does to the elephant. 

What shape Dr. Oudemans 
ascribed to the animal is now easy 
to explain, though it wasn’t in his 
day. 



88 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



Just imagine a brontosavu 
which had paddles instead of legs 
and — many reports insisted on 
this feature — a mane. As for the 
latter, Dr. Oudemans said, it 
might be a sexual ornament. 
Maybe only the males sport a 
mane. Or, possibly, only old ani- 
mals of both sexes. Or only fully 
grown males. 

The very next report that came 
in probably made Professor Ou- 
demans wish that he had delayed 
publication of his book long 
enough to include it. It would 
have been a delay of only about 
two years. 

The report is known as the 
XJmfuli report. 

The steamship Umiuti, com- 
manded by Captain R. J. Cringle, 
was en route from London to 
Natal. The sighting occurred 
while the steamer was at lat. 21° 



x_ 



40' N. and long. 17° 30' W, 
which means off the west coast of 
Africa in about the latitude of 
Havana. The ship still had some 
distance to go until the bulge of 
Africa had been left to the north. 
The date was Monday, December 
4th, 1893. 

At two P.M., the mate entered 
“calm & smooth sea” into the log. 
At four P.M., he wrote “same 
weather,” adding “P. L. 43,” which 
means that the Patent Log showed 
a run of 43 miles since noon. At 
5:30 P.M., he made another entry: 
“Sighted and passed about 500 
yards from a Monster Fish of the 
Serpent shape, about 80 ft. long.” 

In addition to the mate - C. A. 
W. Powell, who made the log 
entry — the animal was seen by 
the captain, several members of 
the crew and a number of the 80 
passengers she was carrying. One 











Fig. 1 Professor Oudemans' concept of the sea serpent 

Drawtn9 by Olga Lay 



FOR YOUR INFORMATION 



69 



of the passengers had a camera 
on board (still fairly rare then) 
but was so excited that he did not 
remember it until later. But Cap- 
tain Cringle made a sketch (cop- 
ied here as Fig. 2) and wrote a 
report in which he said: 

It was rushing through the water 
at great speed, and was throwing 
water from its breast as a vessel 
throws water from her bows. I saw 
full 15 ft. of its head and neck on 
three several occasions. The body 
was all the time visible. . . . The 
base, or body, from which the neck 
sprang, was much thicker than the 
neck itself, and I should not, there- 
fore, call it a serpent. Had it been 
breezy enough to ruffle the water, or 
hazy, I should have had some doubt 
about the creature; but the sea being 
so perfectly smooth, I had not the 
slightest doubt in my mind as to its 
being a sea-monster. 

I turned the ship round to get 
closer to it, and got much nearer 
than we were at first; but the sun 



was then setting and the light gone, 
so that to have nm the ship further 
off her course would have been folly. 
. . . This thing, whatever it was, was 
in sight for over half an hour. In 
fact we did not lose sight of it until 
darkness came on. 

TTNDER observation, the “sea 
^ serpent” repeatedly dipped 
its head into the water, causing 
quite a bit of spray. (Did it catch 
fish?) Captain Cringle believes 
that he saw teeth when the mouth 
was open. He could see the eyes 
clearly. The color of the animal 
was dark brown and the skin ap- 
peared smooth — but at a distance 
of 500 yards, it would be hard to 
tell smooth skin from wet fur. 

What Captain Cringle saw and 
sketched was, of course, precisely 
the shape which Prof. Oudemans 
had predicted. Although I had 
some correspondence with Prof. 
Oudemans at a much later date 
(just before the outbreak of the 
Second World War), I forgot to 




Fig. 2 Capl. CringU't ikelch of tKe Umfuli terpont 



90 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



ask him whether he ever got in 
touch with Captain Cringle. I 
know of no other report which 
seems to corroborate Oudemans’ 
conclusions in such a definite 
manner. 

But while there is none which 
does that, there are a few other 
reports that are even better. So 
far, the unknown animal had been 
seen by missionaries, by commis- 
sioned officers of the Royal Artil- 
lery of Canada, by ordnance 
storekeepers, British Navy offi- 
cers, American merchant captains, 
British merchant captains, by 
clergymen and by Army surgeons 
— in short, by practically every- 
body except a trained zoologist. 

This did not happen until 1905 
and as if to make up for the de- 
lay, fate let the “sea serpent” be 
seen by two zoologists at the same 
time. They were Mr. E. G. B. 
Meade-Waldo and Mr. Michael 
J. Nicoll, both of them Fellows of 
the British Zoological Society. 
They were on board the yacht 
Valhalla, owned by the Earl of 
Crawford, who used it to escape 
the British winter, which had 
proved bad for his health, and 
who was in the habit of taking 
naturalists along with him on his 
cruises. 

The Valhalla was cruising off 
Parahiba, Brazil, offshore of the 
easternmost point of the South 
American continent, when the 
animal was seen. The account 

FOR YOUR INFORMATION 



written by Mr. Meade-Waldo for 
his Society (and published in the 
Proceedings of the Zoological So- 
ciety, 1906, p. 719) gives all the 
details: 

On Dec. 7th, 1905, at 10:15 a.m., 
I was on the poop of the Valhalla 
with Mr. Nicoll, when he drew my 
attention to an object in the sea 
about 100 yards from the yacht; he 
said : “Is that the fin of a great fish?” 

I looked and immediately saw a 
large fin or frill sticking out of ffie 
water, dark seaweed-brown in col- 
our, somewhat crinkled at the edge. 
It was apparently about 6 feet in 
length and projected from 18 inches 
to 2 feet from the water. 

I got my field-glasses on to it (a 
powerful pair of Goerz Trieder) , and 
almost as soon as I had them on the 
frill, a great head and neck rose out 
of the water in front of the frill; the 
neck did not touch the frill in the 
water, but came out of the water in 
front of it, at a distance of certainly 
not less than 18 inches, probably 
more. The neck appeared about the 
thickness of a slight man’s body, and 
from 7 to 8 feet was out of the 
water; head and neck were all about 
the same thickness. 

The head had a very turtle-like 
appearance, as had also the eye. I 
could see the line of the mouth, but 
we were sailing pretty fast, and 
quickly drew away from the object, 
which was going very slowly. It 
moved its head and neck from side 

91 



to side in a peculiar manner: the 
colour of the head and neck was 
dark brown above, and whitish be- 
low— almost white, I think. 

T N SPITE of the turtlelike head, 
both zoologists had the im- 
pression that it was a mammal 
they saw. (The sketch. Fig. 3, is 
a copy of the one Mr. Nicoll pre- 
pared for inclusion in the Pro- 
ceedings.) And they also said that 
the creature seen by H.M.S. Dae- 
dalus “might easily be the same.” 

In retrospect, it looks as if 
things should have built up to a 
climax about then. After the sci- 
entific guess came its general vin- 
dication by another encounter; 
after that, the first sighting by 
professional zoologists. Next thing 
should have been discovery. 

But it wasn’t. 

There only were more reports. 

In May, 1917, a British armed 
merchant cruiser, the Hilary, com- 



manded by Captain F. W. Dean, 
was cruising around looking for 
German submarines. The place 
was the ocean to the south of Ice- 
land. In fact, the vessel was so 
close to Iceland that the peaks 
could be seen from board in the 
brilliant sunshine of an excep- 
tionally clear and calm day. 

At about nine A.M., the captain 
was in his cabin, which was di- 
rectly beneath the bridge, when a 
voice shouted down to him: “Ob- 
ject on the starboard quarter.” 

Captain Dean raced up to the 
bridge which, he said, took him 
three seconds. He took it for 
granted, of course, that a subma- 
rine had been sighted and asked: 
“Was it a periscope?” 

He was assured by the officer 
of the watch that it had not been 
a periscope. “It looks more like 
a living thing, but it is not a 
whale.” 

Wartime must do something 




Fig. 3 Mr. Nicoll't tkatch of th* Valhalla mo Mrpant 



92 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



peculiar to the nerves, for Captain 
Dean did not have the faintest 
thoughts about investigation or 
discovery or an3dhing of the sort. 
Instead, he decided that the ob- 
ject, even if not a German sub- 
marine, was still a good opportu- 
nity for target practice. The gim 
crews let go with their six-pound- 
ers and one may be permitted to 
remark that they did not shoot 



too well. Their marksmanship 
was such that it might have 
frightened a human enemy into 
surrender while still undamdged. 
Finally, however, one gun crew 
did score a hit. 

The animal, which had paid no 
attention to the earlier near 
misses, thrashed furiously and 
disappeared, never to be seen 
again. 




A. Hant Egede 

B. lorenz von 
Ferry 

C. New England 
Sea Serpent 

D. H.M.S. 
Daedaivs 

E. Royal Saxon 

F. Lady Com- 
bermere 

G. Halifax offi- 
cers. 

H. S.S. Umfu/i 

I. Valhalla 

J. H.M.S. Hilory 

K. Submarine 
U-28 

1. S.S. Santa 
Clara 



Rg. 5 Sketch map 
of the Atlantic 
Ocean with the 
most important 
sightings 



FOR YOUR INFORMATION 



93 



"DEFORE the shooting started, 
Captain Dean took a careful 
look at the animal, which he later 
described as follows: 

The head was about the shape of, 
but somewhat larger than that of, a 
cow, though with no observable pro- 
trusions such as horns or ears, and 
was black, except for the front of the 
face, which could be clearly seen to 
have a strip of whitish flesh, very 
like a cow has, between its nostrils. 
As we passed, the head raised itself 
two or three times, apparently to get 
a good look at the ship. From the 
back of the head to the dorsal fin no 
part of the creature showed above 
water, but the top edge of the neck 
was just level with the surface, and 
its snake-like movements could be 
clearly seen. (It curved to almost a 
semi-circle as the creature moved its 
head round as if to follow us with 
its eyes.) 

The dorsal fin appeared like a 
black triangle, and when the creature 
was end on, this fin was seen to be 
very thin and apparently fiabby, as 
the upper part turned over some- 
times like the top of a terrier’s ear 
when cocked. The fin was estimated 
to be about four feet high when in 
the position highest out of the water. 

The distance from the head to 
the fin was estimated at about 20 
feet or slightly less by the cap- 
tain, the first lieutenant, the offi- 
cer of the watch and the naviga- 

94 



tor. From this. Captain Dean 
inferred that the total length 
must have been about 60 feet. 

Before that, one of the German 
submarines which Captain Dean 
was hunting had had a curious 
encounter itself, but the com- 
mander of the submarine deemed 
it wise not to talk too much about 
it while the war was going on. He 
was Captain Freiherr (Baron) 
von Forstner and he might never 
have written about it if it had 
not been for the Loch Ness case. 

When the first reports from the 
Loch Ness were printed promi- 
nently in all European newspa- 
pers, the newspapermen, of course, 
badgered professional zoologists, 
like directors of zoological gar- 
dens, about their opinions. Since 
the scientists had not been to 
Scotland, had never seen the sup- 
posed animal reported from there, 
and had a few other things on their 
minds anyway, they could not 
give much of an answer. But one 
said that all sea serpent reports 
were so old that one might dis- 
trust them on principle and that 
he would prefer to hear some- 
thing more than the Daedalus 
story. 

Whereupon Baron von Forst- 
ner decided to tell him something 
more recent, namely his own war- 
time experience: 

On July 30, 1915, our V-28 tor- 
pedoed in the North Atlantic the 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



British steamer Iberian (5223 tons) 
leaded with valuable goods. The 
ship, which was about 180 meters 
long, sank rapidly, stem first, the 
depth at this point being a few thou- 
sand meters. When the steamer had 
disappeared for about 25 seconds it 
exploded at a depth which we could 
not know, but one thousand meters 
will be a safe guess. Shortly after- 
wards pieces of wreckage, among 
them a huge marine animal which 
made violent movements, were 
thrown out of the water, flying ap- 
proximately 20 or 30 meters high. 

At this moment we were six men 
on the bridge, myself, the two offi- 
cers of the watch, the chief engineer, 
the navigator and the helmsman. We 
at once centered our attention upon 
this marvel of the seas. Unfortu- 
nately we had not time to take a 
photograph because the animal dis- 
appeared in the water after 10 or 15 
seconds. It was about 20 meters (66 
feet) long, looked like a giant croco- 
dile, and had four powerful paddle- 
like limbs and a long pointed head. 

The explanation of this event 
seems easy to me. The explosion of, 
or in, the sinking steamer caught the 
“undersea-crocodile,” as we called it, 
and forced it out of the water. 

When somebody tried to cast 
doubts upon this, Baron von 
Forstner declared firmly that this 
was what happened and that he 
“would not give up a single meter 
of the length of his animal.” And 

FOR YOUR INFORMATION 



another German submarine cap- 
tain came to his aid. He had seen 
such an animal while cruising 
submerged in the North Atlantic. 

Captain von Forstner and Com- 
mander Gould then collaborated 
on a German edition of the lat- 
ter’s book The Case tor the Sea 
Serpent in the hope of imcovering 
more reports. But to the best of 
my knowledge, none came. 

' I ■’HERE have been a few more 
sightings, however, in addition 
to the somewhat dubious Loch 
Ness case. There is one from the 
sea near Scotland, one from 
Alaska and one from the vicinity 
of San Clemente island off Cali- 
fornia. But like many others, they 
are just sightings, probably excit- 
ing enough to the people to whom 
they happen, but nothing really 
new. 

Yet something may happen any 
day. 

I am quite sure that nobody 
thought of sea monsters between 
Christmas and New Year of 1947. 
But the Grace Line steamer 
Santa Clara literally ran into one 
on December 30, 1947, at 11:55 

A.M. 

The time of day is so exactly 
established because the officers of 
the ship were just getting ready 
for the noon sight. The place was 
118 miles due east of Cape Look- 
out and the Santa Clara had just 
crossed the Gulf Stream while 

95 



sailing for Cartagena. The weather 
was perfectly clear, with blue sky 
and bright sunshine, and the sea 
was calm. 

The story by the master of the 
Santa Clara, J. Fordan, which was 
distributed by the Associated 
Press, read in part: 

Suddenly John Axelson (the third 
mate) saw a snakelike head rear out 
of the sea about 30 feet off the star- 
board bow of the vessel. His ex- 
clamation of amazement directed the 
attention of the other two mates to 
the sea monster and the three 
watched it unbelievingly as, in a 
moment’s time, it came abeam of the 
bridge where they stood, and was 
then left astern. 

The creature’s head appeared to 
be about 2 V 2 feet across, 2 feet 
thick and 5 feet long. The cylindri- 
cally shaped body was about 3 feet 
thick and the neck about IV 2 feet 
in diameter. 

As the monster came abeam of the 
bridge it was observed that the water 
around the monster, over an area of 
30 or 40 feet square, "was stained 
red. The visible part of the body was 
about 35 feet long. It was assumed 
that the color of the water was due 
to the creature’s blood and that the 
stem of the ship had cut the monster 
in two, but as there was no observer 
on the other side of the vessel there 
was no way of estimating what 
length of body may have been left 
on the other side. 

96 



From the time the monster was 
first sighted until it disappeared in 
the distance astern, it was thrashing 
about as though in agony. The mon- 
ster’s skin was dark brown, slick and 
smooth. There were no fins, hair, or 
protuberances on the head, neck or 
visible parts of the body. 

Vj^ELL, what now? The answer 
** is unsatisfyingly simple — 
now we wait. 

To doubt that there is a large, 
long-necked unknown animal in 
the ocean would be very foolish 
under the circumstances. In ap- 
pearance, it seems to resemble the 
extinct plesiosaurs rather closely. 
True, they were all smaller than 
the dimensions reported for the 
“sea serpent,” but this is no argu- 
ment. Today’s horses are also 
larger than those of the past. Yet 
in spite of the external resem- 
blance to the plesiosaurs, Oude- 
mans was probably right — the 
animal does not seem to be a rep- 
tile, like the plesiosaurs, but a 
mammal. 

The rather numerous appear- 
ances in cold waters speak in 
favor of this assumption. So does 
the mane, even if it was seen only 
rarely, for where there is a mane, 
there is likely to be a fur. Finally 
— this happens to be the age of 
mammals. 

Whatever it is, it seems to be 
an animal of the high seas which 
does not come close to the shore, 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




save in most exceptional circum- 
stances. It is obviously rarer than 
the whales, though nobody can 
say how rare. But the case of the 
fish Latimeria comes to mind 
here again. Once thought to be 
wholly extinct, a single specimen 
was caught by accident and, since 
it remained the only one for 
about a decade, the fish was 
thought to be incredibly rare. Ac- 
tually scientists just did not know 
where to look for Latimeria. 

One may ask, of course, why 
no dead “sea serpent” has ever 
been washed ashore. The claim 
that just this occurred in one lo- 
cality or another is not really 
rare, but when the “sea serpent” 
could be inspected by naturalists, 
the claim was always found to be 
mistaken. 

Sometimes the dead “sea ser- 
pent” was a half-decayed large 
shark. More than once, it turned 
out to be the mutilated body of a 
dolphin — mutilated not by some 
sea monster, but by such prosaic 
an agency as the propeller of a 
steamship. Quite often, the dead 
cr still barely living “sea serpent” 
turned out to be an oarfish, also 
called ribbon fish. This strange 
inhabitant of the Atlantic will 
grow to a length of 30 feet and 
possibly more, being only inches 
thick. 

It is true that there are a few 
reports of things washed ashore 
that could not be identified, but 



H(. 4 One culprit — the ribbon fish or 
oar fi>h (Regaleeut) 

Drawing by Oigo 

they could not even be definitely 
declared to be unknown. 

Since a good number of the va- 
rious species of "Whales sink when 
dead, there is no reason to deny 
this possibility for the unknown 
“sea serpent,” too. There is no vir- 
tue in indulging in long specula- 
tions, however, until we know 
more. 

The animal — or various species 
— can’t remain a mystery forever. 
The oceans are becoming too well 
traveled and explored to let it — 
or them — stay out of sight in- 
definitely. 

— WILLY LEY 



FOR YOUR INFORMATION 



97 




98 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



By ALFRED BESTER 



My Destination 

Conclusion of a 4 Part Serial 

PyrB was power beyond Man's most fantastic 
dreams . . . but Gully Foyle's Burning Man 
was a fantastic dream within Man's powerl 



Illustrated bv EMSH 




SYNOPSIS 



A driving passion for venge- 
ance has transformed 
Gully Foyle from a brute 
spaceman into a clever, devas- 
tating engine of destruction. Ma- 
rooned in space aboard the wreck 
of SS Nomad and left to die by 
a sister ship, the Vorga, which re- 
fused to rescue him, Foyle has 
spent eighteen months trying to 
track down the man who gave the 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



order to abandon him. 

Pursuing his revenge, Foyle has 
opposed the wealthy Presteign of 
Presteign, owner of the Nomad, 
who was determined to locate the 
wreck of his ship to recover Cr 
20 millions in platinum which 
was in the purser's safe, along 
with 20 pounds of a mysterious 
substance called PyrE. Presteign 
has been aided by the formidable 

99 



Saul Dagenham, chief of Dagen- 
ham Couriers, and Regis Sheffield, 
leading attorney of Terra. 

With the aid of Jisbella Mc- 
Queen, a clever and beautiful 
thief, Foyle was able to escape 
from Gouffre Martel, a cavern 
prison, beat Dagenham to the 
wreck of the Nomad and appro- 
priate the fortune to finance his 
plan for revenge. Spending money 
lavishly, Foyle has taken on a 
new identity as Geoffrey Four- 
myle of Ceres, a ludicrous play- 
boy, and, with the unwilling help 
of Robin Wednesbury, a “tele- 
send,” has traced three leads to 
the identity of the commander 
aboard Vorga who gave the order 
to let him die. 

In quick succession, Foyle has 
tracked down a Leading Space- 
man, a Pharmacist’s Mate and an 
Able Spaceman from the Vorga. 
Periodically in his search, Foyle 
is appalled by the ghastly, inex- 
plicable appearance of a Burning 
Man, an image of himself with 
clothes on fire, the face glowing 
blood red with the scars of an old 
tattooing which has been re- 
moved. This tattooing Foyle re- 
ceived on the Sargasso Asteroid, 
a planetoid of 25th century sav- 
ages, salvagers and looters in 
space. Foyle cannot understand 
the meaning of this Burning Man. 
He is not a fantasy because the 
Burning Man is seen by others as 
well as Foyle. 

100 



Foyle’s three clues lead to a 
horrible discoyery. The reason 
that SS Vorga did not pick him 
up in space was that Vorga was 
engaged in a cruel racket. War 
refugees from the' Outer Satel- 
lites had been smuggled out to 
be transported to the Itmer Plan- 
ets for enormous fees. But Vorga 
had collected the money from the 
passengers and then scuttled 
them in space. Hundreds of help- 
less people had been murdered. 

In the course of his search, 
Foyle, disguised as Fourmyle, 
mingles with society as well as 
the underworld. At a party in 
Presteign’s home, Foyle success- 
fully passes the scrutiny of Pres- 
teign and Saul Dagenham, and 
meets Jisbella McQueen again. 
Although Foyle had abandoned 
her when he salvaged the Nomad 
fortune, Jiz does not reveal his 
true identity. She has become 
Dagenham’s mistress and wants 
Dagenham to have nothing to do 
with the PyrE which Foyle also 
possesses. She is in deadly terror 
of this mysterious substance for 
which Presteign and Army Cen- 
tral Intelligence, headed by Cap- 
tain Peter Y’ang-Yeovil, are both 
desperately searching. 

Foyle also meets Presteign’s 
beautiful albino daughter, Olivia 
Presteign, and falls deeply in love 
with her. When he reveals this to 
Robin Wednesbury, Robin leaves 
him in a jealous rage and goes to 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



Central Intelligence headquarters, 
where she reveals the truth about 
Foyle to Captain Y’ang-Yeovil. At 
almost the same moment, Saul 
Dagenham ferrets out the truth 
about Foyle from Jisbella Mc- 
Queen, and Olivia Presteign un- 
wittingly reveals the truth about 
Foyle to her father. Foyle has 
been betrayed by the three 
women in his life. 

With Central Intelligence, Dag- 
enham Couriers and Presteign of 
Presteign hunting him, Foyle fi- 
nally locates the captain of SS 
Vorga on Mars in a freak colony 
for recluses. There, with the un- 
expected and startling aid of the 
Burning Man, Foyle makes the 
disastrous discovery that the per- 
son in command of Vorga, who 
ran the refugee racket and who 
gave the order to leave him to die, 
was Olivia Presteign, the woman 
he loves. 

Foyle is so staggered by this 
information that he is nearly cap- 
tured by the Mars Commando 
Brigade, which is pursuing him. 
Only a sneak atomic attack by 
the Outer Satellites in the war be- 
tween the Outer Satellites and In- 
ner Planets enables Foyle to es- 
cape. But he loses control of the 
spaceship that jets him up from 
the surface of Mars and goes driv- 
ing out into space, as battered and 
helpless as he was a year and a 
half ago aboard the wreck of the 
Nomad. 



14 

T^OYLE awoke in darkness. He 
was decelerated, but the ex- 
haustion of his body told him he 
had been under acceleration 
while he was unconscious. Either 
his power pack had run out or . . . 

He inched a hand to the small 
of his back. The pack was gone. 
It had been removed. 

He explored with trembling 
fingers. He was in a bed. He lis- 
tened to the murmur of ventila- 
tors and refrigerants and the click 
and buzz of servo-mechanisms. 
He was aboard a ship. He was 
strapped to the bed. The ship was 
in free fall. 

Foyle unfastened himself, 
pressed his elbows against the 
mattress and floated up. He 
drifted through the darkness, 
searching for a light-switch or a 
call-button. His hands brushed 
against a water carafe with raised 
letters on the glass. He read them 
with his fingertips. SS, he felt. 
VORGA. Vorga. He cried out. 

The door of the stateroom 
opened. A figure drifted through 
the door, silhouetted against the 
light of a luxurious private 
lounge behind it. 

“This time we did pick you 
up,” a voice said. 

“Olivia?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then it’s true?” 

“Yes, Gully.” 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



101 



Foyle began to cry, 

“You’re still weak,” Olivia 
Presteign said gently. “Come and 
lie down.” 

She urged him into the lounge 
and strapped him into a chaise 
longue. It was still warm from 
her body. “You’ve been like this 
for six days. We never thought 
you’d live. Everything was drained 
out of you before the surgeon 
found that battery buried in your 
back.” 

“Where is it?” he croaked. 
“You can have it whenever you 
want it. Don’t fret, my dear.” 

He looked at her for a long 
moment, his Snow Maiden, his 
beloved Ice Princess — the white 
satin skin, the blind coral eyes 
and exquisite coral mouth. She 
touched his moist eyelids with a 
scented handkerchief. 

“I love you,” he said. 

“Shh. I know. Gully.” 

“You’ve known all about me. 
For how long?” 

“I knew Gully Foyle, the space- 
man off the Nomad, was my 
enemy from the beginning. I 
never knew you were Fourmyle 
until we met. Ah, if only I’d 
known before. How much would 
have been saved.” 

“You knew and you’ve been 
laughing at me.” 

“No.” 

“Standing by and shaking with 
laughter.” 

“Standing by and loving you. 



No, don’t interrupt. I’m trying to 
be rational and it’s not easy.” 

A FLUSH cascaded across the 
marble face. “I’m not playing 
with you now. I — I betrayed you 
to my father. I did. Self-defense, I 
thought. Now that I’ve met him 
at last, I can see he’s too danger- 
ous. An hour later, I knew it was 
a mistake because I realized I 
was in love with you. I’m paying 
for it now. You need never have 
known.” 

“You expect me to believe 
that?” 

“Then why am I here?” She 
trembled slightly. “Why did I 
follow you? That bombing was 
ghastly. You’d have been dead in 
another minute when we picked 
you up.” 

‘Where are we now?” 

‘What difference does it make?” 
“I’m stalling for time.” 

“Time for what?” 

“Not for time. I’m stalling for 
courage.” 

“We’re orbiting Earth.” 

“How did you follow me?” 

“I knew you’d be after Lindsey 
Joyce. I took over one of my 
father’s ships. It happened to be 
VoTia again.” 

“Does he know?” 

“He never knows. I live my 
own private life.” 

He could not take his eyes off 
her and yet it hurt him to look at 
her. He was yearning and hating 



102 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



— yearning for the reality to be 
undone, hating the truth for what 
it was. He discovered that he was 
stroking her handkerchief with 
tremulous fingers. 

“I love you, Olivia.” 

“I love you. Gully, my enemy.” 
“For God’s sake!” he burst out. 
“Why did you do it? You were 
aboard Voria running the reff 
racket. You gave the order to 
scuttle them. You gave the order 
to pass me by. Why? Why?!” 
“What?” she lashed back. “Are 
you demanding apologies?” 

“I’m demanding an explana- 
tion.” 

“You’ll get none from me!” 
“Blood and money, your father 
said. He was right. Bitch! Bitch! 
Bitch!” 

“Blood and money, yes, and 
unashamed.” 

“I’m drowning, Olivia. Throw 
me a lifeline.” 

“Then drown. Nobody ever 
saved me. No — no, this is wrong, 
all wrong. Wait, my dear. Wait.” 
She composed herself and began 
speaking very tenderly. “I could 
lie. Gully dear, and make you be- 
lieve it, but I’m going to be hon- 
est. There’s a simple explanation. 
I live my own private life. You 
do. We all do.” 

“What’s yours?” 

“No different from yours — 
from the rest of the world. I 
cheat, I lie, I destroy — like all of 
us. I’m criminal — like all of us.” 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



“Why? For money? You don’t 
need money.” 

“No.” 

“For control? Power?” 

“Not for power.” 

“Then why?” 

^HE took a deep breath, as 
though this truth was the first 
truth and was crucifying her. “To 
pay you back, all of you.” 

“For what?” 

“For being blind,” she said in a 
smoldering voice. “For being 
cheated. For being helpless. They 
should have killed me when I 
was born. Do you know what it’s 
like to be blind — to receive life 
second-hand? To be dependent, 
begging, crippled? ‘Bring them 
down to your level,’ I told my 
secret life. ‘If you’re blind, make 
them blinder. If you’re helpless, 
cripple them. Pay them back, all 
of them.’ ” 

“Olivia, you’re insane.” 

“And you?” 

“I’m in love with a monster.” 
“We’re a pair of monsters.” 
“No!” 

“No? Not you?” she flared. 
“What have you been doing but 
paying the world back, like me? 
What’s your revenge but settling 
your own private account with 
bad luck? Who wouldn’t call you 
a crazy monster? We’re a pair, 
Gully. We couldn’t help falling in 
love.” 

He tried on the shroud of her 

103 



revelation and it clung tighter 
than the tiger mask tattooed on 
his face. 

“It’s true,” he said slowly. “I’m 
no better than you. Worse. But 
before God, I never murdered six 
hundred.” 

“You’re murdering six million.” 
“What?” 

“Perhaps more. You’ve got 
something they need to end the 
war and you’re holding out.” 
“You mean PyrE?” 

“Yes.” 

“What is it, this bringer of 
peace, this twenty pounds of mir- 
acle that they’re fighting for?” 

“I don’t know, but I know they 
need it and I don’t care. Yes, I’m 
being honest now. I don’t care. 
Let millions be murdered. It 
makes no difference to us. Not to 
us, Gully, because we stand apart. 
We stand apart and shape our 
own world. We’re the strong.” 
“We’re the damned.” 

“We’re the blessed. We’ve found 
each other.” Suddenly she laughed 
and held out her arms. “I’m argu- 
ing when there’s no need for 
words. Come to me, my love. 
Wherever you are, come to me...” 
He touched her and then put 
his arms around her. He found 
her mouth and devoured her. But 
he was forced to release her. 
“What is it. Gully darling?” 
“I’m not a child any more,” he 
said wearily. “I’ve learned to un- 
derstand there’s never a simple 

104 



answer. You can love and loathe 
someone.” 

“Can you. Gully?” 

“And you’re making me loathe 
myself.” 

“No, my dear.” 

“I’ve been a tiger all my life. 
I trained myself — educated my- 
self — pulled myself up by my 
stripes to make me a stronger 
tiger with a longer claw and a 
sharper tooth — quick and deadly.” 
“And you are. You are. The 
deadliest.” 

TTE SHOOK his head. “I’m not. 

I went too far. I went beyond 
simplicity. I turned myself into 
a thinking creature. I look 
through your blind eyes, my love 
whom I loathe, and I see myself. 
The tiger’s gone.” 

“There’s no place for the tiger 
to go. You’re trapped. Gully — by 
Dagenham, Intelligence, my 
father, the world.” 

“I know.” 

“But you’re safe with me. 
We’re safe together, the pair of 
us. They’ll never dream of look- 
ing for you near me. We can 
plan together, fight together, de- 
stroy them together . . .” 

“No. Not together.” 

“What is it?” she flared again. 
“Are you still hunting me? Is that 
what’s wrong? Do you still want 
revenge? Then take it. Go ahead, 
destroy me.” 

“No. Destruction’s finished for 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



me. I couldn’t hurt you.” 

“Ah, I know what it is.” She 
became tender again in an in- 
stant. “It’s your face, poor darling. 
You’re ashamed of your tiger 
face. But I love it. You burn so 
brightly for me. You bum through 
the blindness. Believe me . . .” 
“My God! What a pair of hide- 
ous freaks we are.” 

“What’s happened to you?” She 
broke away from him, her coral 
eyes glittering. “Where’s the man 
who watched the raid with me? 
Where’s the unashamed savage 
who-” 

“Gone, Olivia.” 

“Gully!” 

“He’s lost.” 

“But why? What have I done?” 
She reached out, touched him and 
then clung to him. “Listen to me, 
darling. You’re exhausted. That’s 
all. Nothing is lost.” The words 
tumbled out of her. “You’re right. 
Of course you’re right. We’ve 
been bad, both of us. Loathsome. 
But all that’s gone now. Nothing 
is lost. We were wicked because 
we were alone and unhappy. But 
we’ve found each other; we can 
save each other. Be my love, 
darling. Always. Forever. I’ve 
looked for you so long, waited 
and hoped and prayed . . .” 
“You’re lying, Olivia, and you 
know it.” 

“For God’s sake. Gully!” 

“Put Vorga down, Olivia.” 
“Land?” 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



“Yes.” 

“On Earth?” 

“Yes.” 

“They’re hunting you — waiting 
for you — watching. What are you 
going to do?” 

“Do you think this is easy for 
me?” he said. “I’m doing what I 
have to do. I’m still driven. No 
man ever escapes from that. But 
there’s a different compulsion in 
the saddle and the spurs hurt, 
damn it. They hurt like hell.” 

He stifled his anger and con- 
trolled himself. He took her hands 
and kissed her palms. 

“It’s all finished, Olivia,” he 
said gently. “But I love you. Al- 
ways. Forever.” 

^^T’LL sum it up,” Dagenham 
rapped. “We were bombed 
the night we found Foyle. We lost 
him on the Moon and foimd him 
a week later on Mars. We were 
bombed again. We lost him again. 
He’s been lost for a week. An- 
other bombing’s due. Which one 
of the Inner Planets? Venus? The 
Moon? Terra again? Who knows? 
But we all know this — one more 
raid without retaliation and we’re 
lost.” 

He glanced around the table. 
Against the ivory and gold back- 
ground of the Star Chamber of 
Castle Presteign, his face, all 
three faces, looked strained. Cap- 
tain Y’ang-Yeovil slitted his eyes 
in a frown. Presteign compressed 

105 



his thin lips still more tightly. 

“And we know this, too,” Dag- 
enham continued. “We can’t re- 
taliate without PyrE and we can’t 
locate the PyrE without Foyle.” 
“My instructions were,” said 
Presteign, “that PyrE was not to 
be mentioned in public.” 

“In the first place, this is not 
public,” Dagenham snapped. “It’s 
a private information pool. In the 
second place, we’ve gone beyond 
property rights. We’re discussing 
survival and we’ve all got equal 
rights in that. Yes, Jiz?” 

Jisbella McQueen had jaunted 
into the Star Chamber, looking in- 
tent and furious. 

“No sign of Foyle,” she said. 
“Old St. Pat’s still being 
watched?” 

“Yes.” 

“Commando Brigade’s report in 
from Mars yet?” 

“No.” 

“That’s my business and Most 
Secret,” Y’ang-Yeovil objected 
mildly. 

“You’ve got as few secrets from 
me as I have from you.” Dagen- 
ham grinned mirthlessly. “See if 
you can beat Central Intelligence 
back here with that report, Jiz.” 
She disappeared. 

“About property rights,” Cap- 
tain Y’ang-Yeovil murmured. 
“May I suggest to Presteign that 
Central Intelligence will guaran- 
tee full payment to him for his 
right, title and interest in PyrE?” 

106 



“Don’t coddle him, Yeovil.” 

“This conference is being re- 
corded,” Presteign said coldly. 
“The captain’s offer is now on 
file.” He turned his basilisk face 
to Dagenham. “You are in my 
employ, Mr. Dagenham. Please 
control your references to my- 
self.” 

“And to your property?” Dag- 
enham inquired with a deadly 
smile. “The Solar System’s on the 
edge of total annihilation for the 
sake of your property. I’m not ex- 
aggerating. It will be a shooting 
war to end all wars if we can’t 
stop it.” 

“We can always surrender,” 
Presteign answered. 

“No,” Y’ang-Yeovil said. “That’s 
already been discussed and dis- 
carded at HQ. We know the 
post-victory plans of the Outer 
Satellites. They involve total ex- 
ploitation of the Inner Planets. 
We’re to be gutted and worked 
until nothing’s left. Surrender 
would be as disastrous as defeat.” 

“But not for Presteign,” Dag- 
enham corrected. 

“Shall we say — present com- 
pany excluded?” Y’ang-Yeovil re- 
plied gracefully. 

T^AGENHAM swiveled in his 
chair. “All right, Presteign. 
Give.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir?” 

“Let’s hear all about PyrE. I’ve 
got an idea how we can bring 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



Foyle out into the open and lo- 
cate the stuff, but I’ve got to 
know all about it first. Make your 
contribution.” 

“No,” Presteign answered. 

“No, what?” 

“I have decided to withdraw 
from this information pool. I will 
reveal nothing about PyrE.” 
“Presteign! Are you mad? Are 
you fighting Regis Sheffield’s Lib- 
eral Party again?” 

“It’s quite simple, Dagenham,” 
Y’ang-Yeovil interposed. “My in- 
formation about the surrender- 
defeat situation has shown Pres- 
teign a way to better his position. 
No doubt he intends negotiating 
a sale to the enemy in return for 
property advantages.” 

“Can nothing move you?” Dag- 
enham asked Presteign scornfully. 
“Can nothing touch you? Are you 
all property and nothing else? Go 
away, Jizi The whole thing’s 
fallen apart.” 

Jisbella had jaunted into the 
Star Chamber again. “Commando 
Brigade’s reported. We know what 
happened to Foyle.” 

“What?” 

“Presteign’s got him.” 

“What!” Both Dagenham and 
Y’ang-Yeovil started to their feet. 

“He left Mars in a private 
yawl, was shot up and was ob- 
served being rescued by the Pres- 
teign SS Vorga." 

“Damn you, Presteign,” Dagen- 
ham snapped. “So that’s why 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



you’ve been so unconcerned — ” 
“Wait,” Y’ang-Yeovil com- 
manded. “It’s news to him, too, 
Dagenham. Look at him.” 

Presteign’s handsome face had 
gone the color of ashes. He tried 
to rise and fell back stiffly in his 
chair. “Olivia,” he whispered. 
“With him. That scum . . .” 
“Presteign?” 

“My daughter, gentlemen, has 

— for some time been engaged in 

— certain activities. The family 
vice. Blood and— I have man- 
aged to close my eyes to it — had 
almost convinced myself that I 
was mistaken. I— But Foyle! Dirt! 
Filth! He must be destroyed!” 
Presteign’s voice soared alarm- 
ingly. His head twisted back like 
a hanged man’s and his body be- 
gan to shudder. 

“What in the — ” 

“Epilepsy,” Y’ang-Yeovil said. 
He pulled Presteign out of the 
chair onto the floor. “A spoon. 
Miss McQueen. Hurry!” He le- 
vered Presteign’s teeth open and 
placed a spoon between them to 
protect the tongue. As fast as it 
had begun, the seizure was over. 
The shuddering stopped. Presteign 
opened his eyes. 

“Petit mal,” Y’ang-Yeovil mur- 
mured, withdrawing the spoon. 
“But he’ll be dazed for a while.” 

SUDDENLY Presteign began 
speaking in a low monotone. 
“PyrE is a pyrophoric alloy. A 

107 



pyrophore is a metal which emits 
sparks when scraped or struck. 
PyrE emits energy, which is why 
E, the energy symbol, was added 
to the prefix Pyr. PyrE is a solid 
solution of trans-Plutonian iso- 
topes, releasing thermo-nuclear 
energy on the order of stellar 
Phoenix Action. Its discoverer 
was of the opinion that he had 
produced the equivalent of the 
primordial proto-matter which ex- 
ploded into the Universe.” 

“My God!” Jisbella exclaimed. 

Dagenham silenced her with a 
gesture and bent over Presteign. 
“How is it brought to critical 
mass, Presteign? How is the 
energy released?” 

“As the original energy was 
generated in the beginning of 
time,” Presteign droned. “Through 
Will and Idea.” 

“I’m convinced he’s a Cellar- 
Christian,” Dagenham muttered 
to Y’ang-Yeovil. He raised his 
voice. “Will you explain, Pres- 
teign?” 

“Through Will and Idea,” Pres- 
teign repeated. “PyrE can only be 
exploded by psychokinesis. Its 
energy can only be released by 
thought.” 

“There’s no key? No formula?” 

“No. Only Will and Idea are 
necessary.” The glazed eyes 
closed. 

Dagenham . mopped his brow. 
“Will this give the Outer Satel- 
lites pause, Yeovil?” 

108 



“It’ll give us all pause.” 

“It’s the road to hell,” Jisbella 
said. 

“Then let’s find it and get off 
the road. Here’s my idea, Yeovil. 
Foyle was tinkering with that 
hell-brew in his lab in Old St. 
Pat’s, trying to analyze it.” 

“I told you that in strict confi- 
dence,” Jisbella said furiously. 

“I’m sorry, dear. We’re past 
honor and the decencies. Now 
look, Yeovil, there must be some 
fragments of the stuff lying about 
— as dust, in solution, in precipi- 
tates. We’ve got to detonate those 
fragments and blow hell out of 
Foyle’s circus.” 

“Why?” 

“To bring him running. He 
must have the bulk of the PyrE 
hidden there somewhere. He’ll 
come to salvage it” 

“What if it blows up, too?” 

“It can’t — not inside an Inert 
Lead Isotope safe.” 

“Maybe it’s not all inside.” 
“Jiz says it is. At least, so Foyle 
reported.” 

“Leave me out of this,” Jisbella 
said. 

“Anyway, we’ll have to gamble.” 
“Gamble!” Y’ang-Yeovil ex- 
claimed. “On a Phoenix Action? 
You’ll gamble the Solar System 
into a brand-new nova.” 

“What else can we do? Pick 
any other road; it’s also the road 
to destruction. Have we got any 
choice?” 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“We can wait,” Jisbella said. 
“For what? For Foyle to blow 
us up himself with his tinkering?” 
“We can warn him.” 

“We don’t know where he is.” 
“We can find him.” 

“How soon? Won’t that be a 
gamble, too? And what about that 
stuff lying around waiting for 
someone to think it into energy? 
Suppose a Jack-jaimter gets in 
and cracks the safe, looking for 
goodies? And then we don’t just 
have dust waiting for an acciden- 
tal thought. We have twenty 
pounds.” 

J ISBELLA turned pale. Dagen- 
ham turned on the Intelli- 
gence man. “You make the deci- 
sion, Yeovil. Do we try it my 
way or do we wait?” 

Y’ang-Yeovil sighed. “Damn all 
scientists. I’ll have to make my 
decision for a reason you don’t 
know, Dagenham. The Outer Sat- 
ellites are also onto this. We’ve 
got reason to believe that they 
have agents looking for Foyle. If 
we wait, they may pick him up 
before we do. In fact, they may 
have him now.” 

“So your decision is . . . ?” 
“The blowup. Let’s bring Foyle 
running if we can.” 

“No!” Jisbella cried. 

“How?” Dagenham asked, ig- 
noring her. 

“Oh, I’ve got just the one for 
the job. A one-way telepath 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



named Robin Wednesbury.” 
“When?” 

“At once. We’ll clear the entire 
neighborhood. We’ll get full news 
coverage and do a complete 
broadcast. If Foyle’s anywhere in 
the Inner Planets, he’ll hear 
about it.” 

“Not about it,” Jisbella said in 
despair. “He’ll hear it. It’ll be the 
last thing any of us hear.” 

“Will and Idea,” Presteign whis- 
pered. 

* * * 

As always, when he returned 
from a stormy civil court session 
in Leningrad, Regis Sheffield was 
pleased and complacent, rather 
like a cocky prizefighter who’s 
won a tough fight. He stopped off 
at Blekmann’s in Berlin for a 
drink and some war-talk, had a 
second and more war-talk in a 
legal hangout on the Quai Dor- 
say, and a third session in the 
Skin & Bones opposite Temple 
Bar. By the time he arrived in his 
New York office, he was pleas- 
antly illuminated. 

As he strode through the clat- 
tering corridors and outer rooms, 
he was greeted by his secretary 
with a handful of memo beads. 

“Knocked Djargo-Dantchenko 
for a loop,” Sheffield reported tri- 
umphantly. “Judgment and full 
damages. Old DD’s sore as a boil. 
This makes the score eleven to 
five, my favor.” He took the 
beads, juggled them and then be- 

109 



gan tossing them into unlikely re- 
ceptacles all over the office, in- 
cluding the open mouth of a gap- 
ing clerk. 

“Really, Mr. Sheffield! Have 
you been drinking?” 

“No more work today. The war 
news is too damned gloomy. Have 
to do something to stay cheerful. 
What say we brawl in the 
streets?” 

“Mr. Sheffield!” 

“Anything waiting for me that 
can’t wait another day?” 

“There’s a gentleman in your 
office.” 

“He made you let him get that 
far?” Sheffield looked impressed. 
“Who is he? God or somebody?” 
“He won’t give his name. He 
gave me this.” 

^^HE secretary handed Sheffield 
-*• a sealed envelope. On it was 
scrawled URGENT. Sheffield tore 
it open, his blunt features crin- 
kling with curiosity. Then his eyes 
widened. Inside the envelope 
were two Cr 50,00 notes. Shef- 
field turned without a word and 
burst into his private office. Foyle 
arose from his chair. 

“These are genuine,” Sheffield 
blurted. 

“To the best of my knowledge.” 
“Exactly twenty of these notes 
were minted last year. All are on 
deposit in Terran treasuries. How 
did you get hold of these two?” 
“You’re Mr. Sheffield?” 



“Who else? How did you get 
hold of these notes?” 

“Bribery.” 

“Why?” 

“I thought at the time that it 
might be convenient to have them 
available.” 

“For what? More bribery?” 

“If legal fees are bribery.” 

“I set my own fees,” Sheffield 
said. He tossed the notes back to 
Foyle. “You can produce them 
again if I decide to take your case 
and if I decide I’ve been worth 
that to you. What’s your prob- 
lem?” 

“Criminal.” 

“Don’t be too specific yet. 
And?” 

“I want to give myself up.” 
“To the police?” 

“Yes.” 

“For what crime?” 

“Crimes.” 

“Name two.” 

“Robbery and rape.” 

“Name two more.” 

“Blackmail and murder.” 

“Any other items?” 

“Treason and genocide.” 

“Does that exhaust your cata- 
logue?” 

“I think so, but we may be able 
to unveil a few more when we get 
specific.” 

“Been busy, haven’t you? 
Either you’re the Prince of Vil- 
lains or insane.” 

“I’ve been both, Mr. Sheffield.” 
“Why do you want to give 



110 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



yourself up?” Sheffield asked. 

“I’ve come to my senses,” Foyle 
answered bitterly. 

“I don’t mean that. A criminal 
never surrenders while he’s ahead. 
You’re obviously ahead. What’s 
the reason?” 

“The most damnable thing that 
ever happened to a man. I picked 
up a rare disease called con- 
science.” 

Sheffield snorted. “That can 
turn fatal.” 

“It is fatal. I’ve realized that 
I’ve been behaving like an ani- 
mal.” 

“And now you want to purge 
yourself?” 

“No, it isn’t that simple,” Foyle 
said grimly. “That’s why I’ve 
come to you — for major surgery. 
The man who upsets the mor- 
phology of society is a cancer. The 
man who gives his own decisions 
priority over society is a criminal. 
But there are chain reactions. 
Purging yourself with punishment 
isn’t enough. Everything’s got to 
be set right. I wish to God every- 
thing could be cured just by send- 
ing me back to Gouffre Martel or 
shooting me . . .” 

“Back to ■ Gouffre Martel?” 
Sheffield cut in keenly. 

“Shall I be specific?” 

“Not yet. Go on. You sound as 
though you’ve got ethical growing 
pains.” 

“That’s it exactly.” Foyle paced 
in agitation, crvimpling the bank- 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



notes with nervous fingers. “This 
is one hell of a mess, Sheffield. 
There’s a girl that’s got to pay for 
a vicious, rotten crime. The fact 
that I love her— No, never mind 
that. She’s a cancer that’s got to 
be cut out — like me. Which 
means I’ll have to add informing 
to my catalogue. The fact that 
I’m giving myself up, too, doesn’t 
make any difference.” 

“What is all this mishmash?” 

'C'OYLE turned on Sheffield. 

“One of the New Year’s bombs 
has just walked into your office 
and it’s saying: ‘Put it all right. 
Put me together again and send 
me home. Put together the city I 
flattened and the people I shat- 
tered.’ That’s what I want to hire 
you for. I don’t know how most 
criminals feel, but—” 

“Sensible, matter-of-fact, like 
good businessmen who’ve had bad 
luck,” Sheffield answered prompt- 
ly. “That’s the usual attitude of 
the professional criminal. It’s ob- 
vious you’re an amateur, if you’re 
a criminal at all. My dear sir, do 
be sensible. You come here, ex- 
travagantly accusing yourself of 
robbery, rape, murder, genocide, 
treason, and God knows what 
else. Do you expect me to take 
you seriously?” 

Bunny, Sheffield’s assistant, 
jaunted into the private office. 
“Chief!” he shouted in excite- 
ment. “Something new’s turned 

III 



up. A lech-jaunte. Two society- 
kids bribed a C-cIass tart to — 
Oop. Sorry. Didn’t realize you 
had — ” Bunny broke off and 
stared. “Fourmyle!” 

“What? Who?” Sheffield de- 
manded. 

“Don’t you know him, Chief?” 
Bunny stammered. “That’s Four- 
myle of Ceres. Gully Foyle.” 

More than a year ago, Regis 
Sheffield had been hypnotically 
fulminated and triggered for this 
moment. His body had been pre- 
pared to respond without thought 
and the response was lightning. 
He struck Foyle in half a second 
— temple, throat and groin. It had 
been decided not to depend on 
weapons, since none might be 
available. 

Foyle fell. Sheffield turned on 
Bunny and battered him back 
across the office. Then he spat 
into his palm. It had been de- 
cided not to depend on drugs, 
since drugs might not be avail- 
able. Sheffield’s salivary glands 
had been prepared to respond 
with an anaphylaxis secretion to 
the stimulus. He ripped open 
Foyle’s sleeve and dug a nail 
deep into the hollow of Foyle’s 
elbow. 

A strange cry was torn from 
Foyle’s lips; the tattooing showed 
livid on his face. Before the 
stunned law assistant could make 
a move, Sheffield swung Foyle up 
to his shoulder and jaunted. 

112 



He arrived in the middle of the 
Four Mile Circus in Old St. Pat’s. 
It was a daring but calculated 
move. This was the last place he 
would be expected to go and the 
first place where he might expect 
to locate the PyrE. He was pre- 
pared to deal with anyone he 
might meet in the Cathedral, but 
the interior of the Circus was 
empty. 

The vacant tents ballooning up 
in the nave looked tattered; they 
had already been looted. Sheffield 
plunged into the first he saw. It 
was Fourmyle’s traveling library, 
filled with hundreds of books and 
thousands of glittering novel 
beads. The Jack-jaunters were 
not interested in literature. 

Sheffield threw Foyle down on 
the floor. Only then did he take a 
gun from his pocket. 

Foyle’s eyelids fluttered; his 
eyes opened. 

“You’re drugged,” Sheffield said 
rapidly. “Don’t try to jaunte. And 
don’t move. I’m warning you, I’m 
ready for anything.” 

T^AZEDLY, Foyle tried to rise. 

Sheffield instantly fired and 
seared his shoulder. Foyle was 
slammed back against the stone 
flooring. He was numbed and be- 
wildered. There was a roaring in 
his ears and a poison coursing 
through his blood. 

“I’m warning you,” Sheffield re- 
peated, “I’m ready for anything.” 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“What do you want?” Foyle 
whispered. 

“Two things. Twenty pounds of 
PyrE and you. You most of all.” 
“You damned maniac! I came 
into your office to give it up — 
hand it over.” 

“To the O.S.?” 

“To the what?” 

“The Outer Satellites. Shall I 
spell it for you?” 

“No,” Foyle muttered. “The pa- 
triot, Sheffield, an O.S. agent. I 
should have known. I’m a fool.” 
“You’re the most valuable fool 
in the Solar System, Foyle. We 
want you even more than the 
PyrE. That’s an unknown to us, 
but we know what you are.” 
“What are you talking about?” 
“You don’t know, do you? You 
still don’t know. You haven’t an 
inkling.” 

“Of what?” 

“Listen to me,” Sheffield said. 
“I’m taking you back two years 
to Nomad. Understand? Back to 
the death of the Nomad. One of 
our raiders finished her off and 
they found you aboard the wreck. 
The last man alive.” 

“So an O.S. ship did blast 
Nomad?” 

“Yes. You don’t remember?” 

“I don’t remember anything 
about that. I never could.” 

“I’m telling you why. The raider 
got a clever idea. They’d turn you 
into a decoy —a sitting duck, un- 
derstand? You were half dead. 



but they took you aboard and 
patched you up. They put you 
into a spacesuit and cast you 
adrift with your micro-wave on. 
You were broadcasting distress 
signals and mumbling for help on 
every wave-band. The idea was 
that they’d lurk nearby and pick 
off the I. P. ships that came to 
rescue you.” 

Foyle began to laugh. “I’m get- 
ting up,” he said recklessly. “Shoot 
again, you son of a bitch, but I’m 
getting up.” He struggled to his 
feet, clutching his shoulder. “So 
Vorga shouldn’t have picked me 
up anyway. I was a decoy. No- 
body should have come near me. 
I was a shill, a lure, death-bait. 
Isn’t that the final irony? Nomad 
didn’t have any right to be res- 
cued in the first place. I didn’t 
have any right to revenge.” 

“You still don’t understand,” 
Sheffield pounded. “They were 
nowhere near Nomad when they 
set you adrift. They were six hun- 
dred thousand miles from No- 
mad.” 

“Six hundred thous— ” 

“Nomad was too far out of the 
shipping lanes. They wanted you 
where ships would pass. They 
took you six hundred thousand 
miles sunward. They put you 
through the airlock and backed 
off, watching you drift. Your suit- 
lights were blinking and you were 
moaning for help on the micro- 
wave. Then you disappeared.” 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



113 



“Disappeared?” 

“You were gone. No more 
lights, no more broadcast. They 
came back to check. You were 
gone without a trace. And the 
next thing we learned — you got 
back aboard Nomad." 

“Impossible!” 

“Man, you space-jaunted!” Shef- 
field said savagely. “You were 
patched and delirious, but you 
space-jaunted. You space-jaunted 
six hundred thousand miles 
through the void back to the 
wreck of the Nomad. You did 
something that’s never been done 
before. God knows how. You don’t 
even know yourself. But we’re 
going to find out. I’m taking you 
to the Satellites with me and 
we’ll get that secret out of you if 
we have to tear it out.” 

He took Foyle’s throat in his 
powerful hand and hefted the gun 
in the other. “But first I want the 
PyrE. You’ll produce it, Foyle. 
Don’t think you won’t.” He lashed 
Foyle across the forehead with 
the gun. “I’ll do anything to get it. 
Don’t think I won’t.” He smashed 
Foyle again, coldly, efficiently. “If 
you’re looking for a purge, man, 
you’ve found it!” 

T>UNNY leaped off the public 
jaunte stage at Five-Points 
and streaked into the main en- 
trance of Central Intelligence’s 
New York Office like a frightened 
rabbit. He shot past the outer- 

114 



most guard cordon, through the 
protective labyrinth and into the 
inner offices. He acquired a train 
of excited pursuers and found 
himself face to face with the more 
seasoned guards who had calmly 
jaunted to positions ahead of him 
and were waiting. 

Bunny began to shout: “Yeo- 
vil! Yeovil!” 

Still running, he dodged around 
desks, kicked over chairs, and 
created an incredible uproar. He 
continued his yelling: “Yeovil! 
Yeovil! Yeovil!” Just before they 
were about to put him out of his 
misery, Y’ang-Yeovil appeared. 

“What’s all this? I gave orders 
that Miss Wednesbury was to 
have absolute quiet.” 

“Yeovil!” Bunny shouted. 
“Who’s that?” 

“Sheffield’s assistant.” 

“What? Bunny?” 

“Foyle!” Bunny howled. “Gully 
Foyle.” 

Y’ang-Yeovil covered the fifty 
feet between them in exactly one- 
point-six-six seconds. “What about 
Foyle?” 

“Sheffield’s got him,” Bunny 
gasped. 

“Sheffield? When?” 

“Half an hour ago.” 

“Why didn’t he bring him 
here?” 

“He abducted him. I think Shef- 
field’s an O.S. agent . . .” 

“Why didn’t you come at 
once?” 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“Sheffield jaunted with Foyle. 
Knocked him stiff and disap- 
peared. I went looking. All over. 
Took a chance. Must have made 
fifty jauntes in twenty minutes...” 
“Amateur!” Y’ang-Yeovil ex- 
claimed in exasperation. “Why 
didn’t you leave that to the pros?” 
“Found Sheffield and Foyle.” 
“You found them? Where?” 
“Old St. Pat’s. Sheffield’s after 
the-” 

But Y’ang-Yeovil had turned 
on his heel and was tearing back 
up the corridor, shouting: “Robin! 
Robin! Stop!” 

And then their ears were bruised 
by the bellow of thunder. 

15 

T IKE widening rings in a pond, 
the Will and the Idea spread, 
searching out, touching and trip- 
ping the delicate sub-atomic trig- 
ger of PyrE. The thought found 
particles, dust, smoke, vapor, 
motes, molecules. The Will and 
the Idea transformed them all. 

In Sicily, where Dott. Franco 
Torre had worked for an exhaust- 
ing month attempting to unlock 
the secret of one slug of PyrE, the 
residues and the precipitates had 
been dumped down a drain which 
led to the sea. For many months, 
the Mediterranean currents had 
drifted these residues across the 
sea-bottom. In an instant, a 
hump)-backed mound of water 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



towering fifty feet high traced the 
courses, northeast to Sardinia and 
southwest to Tripoli. A micro-sec- 
ond later, the surface of the Medi- 
terranean was raised into the 
twisted casting of a giant earth- 
worm that wound around the is- 
lands of Pantelleria, Lampedusa, 
Linosa and Malta. 

Some of the residues had been 
burned off, had gone up the chim- 
ney with smoke and vapor to 
drift for hundreds of miles before 
settling. These minute particles 
showed where they had finally 
settled in Morocco, Algeria, Libya 
and Greece with blinding pin- 
point explosions of incredible mi- 
nuteness and intensity. And some 
motes, still drifting in the strato- 
sphere, revealed their presence 
with brilliant gleams like daylight 
stars. 

In Texas, where Prof. John 
Mantley had had the same baf- 
fling experience with PyrE, most 
of the residues had gone down the 
shaft of an exhausted oil well 
which was also used to accommo- 
date radioactive wastes. A deep 
water table had absorbed much of 
the matter and spread it slowly 
over an area of some ten square 
miles. Ten square miles of Texas 
flats shook themselves into cor- 
duroy. A vast untapped deposit of 
natural gas at last found a vent 
and came shrieking up to the 
surface where sparks from flying 
stones ignited it into a roaring 

115 



conical torch, two hundred feet 
high. 

A milligram of PyrE deposited 
on a disk of filter paper, long 
since discarded, forgotten, rounded 
up in a wastepaper drive and at 
last pulped into a mold for type- 
metal, destroyed the entire late 
night edition of the Glasgow Ob- 
server. 

A small fragment of PyrE spat- 
tered on a lab smock, long since 
converted into rag paper, de- 
stroyed a thank you note written 
by. Lady Shrapnel, and destroyed 
an additional ton of first class 
rriail in the process. 

A shirt cuff, inadvertently 
dipped into an acid solution of 
PyrE, abandoned along with the 
shirt and now worn under his 
mink suit by a Jack-jaunter, 
blasted off the wrist and hand of 
the Jack-jaunter in one fiery am- 
putation. 

A decimilligram of PyrE, still 
adhering to a former evaporation 
crystal now in use as an ashtray, 
kindled a fire that scorched the 
office of one Baker, dealer in 
freaks and purveyor of natural 
and surgical monsters. 

A CROSS the length and breadth 
of the planet were isolated 
explosions, chains of explosions, 
traceries of fire, pinpoints .of fire, 
meteor flares in the sky, great cra- 
ters and narrow channels plowed 
in the Earth, exploded in the 

116 



Earth, vomited forth from the 
Earth. ' 

In Old St. Pat’s, nearly a tenth 
of a gram of PyrE was exposed 
in Fourmyle’s laboratory. The 
rest was sealed in its Inert Lead 
Isomer safe, protected from acci- 
dental and intentional psychoki- 
netic ignition. The blinding blast 
of energy generated from that 
tenth of a gram blew out the walls 
and split the floors as though an 
internal earthquake had con- 
vulsed the building. 

The buttresses held the pillars 
for a split-second and then crum- 
bled. Down came towers, spires, 
pillars, buttresses and roof in a 
thundering avalanche to hesitate 
above the yawning crater of the 
floor in a tangled, precarious equi- 
librium. A breath of wind, a dis- 
tant vibration, and the collapse 
would continue until the crater 
was filled solid with pulverized 
rubble. 

The starlike heat of the explo- 
sion ignited a hundred fires and 
melted the ancient thick copper 
of the collapsed roof. If a milli- 
gram more of PyrE had been ex- 
posed to detonation, the heat 
would have been intense enough 
to vaporize the metal immedi- 
ately. Instead, it glowed white 
and began to flow. It streamed off 
the wreckage of the crumbled 
roof and began searching its way 
downward through the jumbled 
stone, iron, wood and glass, like 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



some monstrous molten mold 
creeping through a tangled web. 

Dagenham and Y’ang-Yeovil 
arrived almost simultaneously. A 
moment later, Robin Wednes- 
bury appeared and then Jisbella 
McQueen. A dozen Intelligence 
operatives and six Dagenham 
couriers arrived along with Pres- 
teign’s Jaunte Watch and the po- 
lice. They formed a cordon 
around the blazing block, but 
there were very few spectators. 
After the shock of the New Year’s 
Eve raid, that single explosion 
had frightened half New York 
into another wild jaunte for 
safety. 

The uproar of the fire was 
frightful and the massive grind of 
tons of wreckage in xmeasy bal- 
ance was ominous. Everyone was 
forced to shout and yet was fear- 
ful of the vibrations. Y’ang-Yeo- 
vil bawled the news about Foyle 
and Sheffield into Dagenham’s 
ear. Dagenham nodded and dis- 
played his deadly smile. 

“We’ll have to go in,” he 
shouted. 

“Fire suits,” Y’ang-Yeovil yelled 
back. 

He disappeared and reappeared 
with a pair of white Disaster 
Crew fire suits. At the sight of 
these, Robin and Jisbella began 
shouting hysterical objections. 
The two men ignored them, wrig- 
gled into the Inert Isomer armor 
and inched into the inferno. 



IPSTITHIN Old St. Pat’s, it was 
” as though a monstrous hand 
had chvimed a log-jam of wood, 
stone and metal. Through every 
interstice crawled tongues of 
molten copper, igniting wood, 
crumbling stone, shattering glass. 
Where the copper flowed, it 
merely glowed, but where it 
poured, it spattered dazzling drop- 
lets of white hot metal. 

Beneath the log-jam yawned a 
black crater where formerly the 
floor of the cathedral had been. 
The explosion had split the flag- 
stone, revealing the cellars, sub- 
cellars and vaults deep below the 
building. These, too, were filled 
with a snarl of stones, beams, 
pipes, wire, the remnants of the 
Four Mile circus tents; all fitfully 
lit small fires. Then the first of 
the copper dripped down into the 
crater and illuminated it with a 
brilliant molten splash. 

Dagenham pounded Y’ang- 
Yeovil’s shoulder to attract his 
attention and pointed. Halfway 
down the crater, in the midst of 
the tangle, lay the body of Regis 
Sheffield, drawn and quartered by 
the explosion. Y’ang-Yeovil 
pounded Dagenham’s shoulder 
and pointed. Almost at the bot- 
tom of the crater lay Gully Foyle, 
and as the blazing spatter illu- 
minated him, they saw him move. 
The two men at once turned and 
crawled out of the cathedral for a 
conference. 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



117 




118 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“He’s alive.” 

“How’s it possible?” 

“I can guess. Did you see the 
shreds of tent wadded near him? 
It must have been a freak explo- 
sion up at the other end of the 
cathedral and the tents in be- 
tween cushioned Foyle. Then he 
dropped through the floor before 
anything else had a chance to hit 
him.” 

“Luckily for us. We’ve got to 
get him out. He’s the only man 
who knows where the PyrE is 
located.” 

“Could it still be here — unex- 
ploded?” 

“If it’s in the ILI safe, yes. How 
are we going to get him out?” 
“Well, we can’t work down 
from above.” 

“Why not?” 

“One false step and the whole 
mess will collapse.” 

“Did you see that copper flow- 
ing down?” 

“God, yes!” 

“Well, if we don’t get him out 
in ten minutes, he’ll be at the bot- 
tom of a pool of molten copper.” 
“What can we do?” 

“I’ve got a long-shot.” 

“What?” 

“The cellars of the old R.C.A. 
buildings across the street are as 
deep as St. Pat’s.” 

“And?” 

“We’ll go down and try to hole 
through. Maybe we can pull 
Foyle out from the bottom.” 



On Your 

Newsstand NOW- 

TARNISHED UTOPIA 

By 

Malcolm Jameson 

A fascinating fast-moving 
adventure of a man and a 
beautiful girl of the present, 
who find themselves in a 
strange cruel land of the 
future. Transferred to a vi- 
cious world, ruled over by 
the cruelest of dictators, he 
falls in love with Cynthia 
(the girl from the present), 
but finds her cold to his at- 
tentions. The man, Win- 
chester, is made a slave, 
racked with pain in the tor- 
ture chambers of this strange 
and hideous land, this brave 
American plots a terrible 
death for the tyrannical dic- 
tator. This is the type of 
light-reading, fast-moving 
adventure you won’t want 
to put down until finished. 

Galaxy Science Fiction Novel 
No. 27 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



119 



A SQUAD broke into the an- 
dent R.C.A. buildings, aban- 
doned and sealed up for two gen- 
erations. They went down into the 
cellar arcades, crumbling muse- 
ums of the retail stores of centu- 
ries past. They located the old 
elevator shafts and dropped 
through them into the sub-cellars 
filled with electric installations, 
heat plants and refrigeration sys- 
tems. They went down into the 
sump cellars, waist-deep in water 
from the streams of prehistoric 
Manhattan Island, streams that 
still flowed beneath the streets 
that covered them. 

As they waded through the 
sump cellars, bearing east-north- 
east to bring up opposite the St. 
Pat’s vaults, they suddenly dis- 
covered that the pitch-dark was 
lighted by a fiery flickering up 
ahead. Dagenham shouted and 
flung himself forward. The explo- 
sion that had opened the sub- 
cellars of St. Pat’s had split the 
septum between its vaults and 
those of the R.C.A. buildings. 
Through a jagged rent in stone 
and soil, they could peer into the 
bottom of the inferno. 

Fifty feet inside was Foyle, 
trapped in a labyrinth of twisted 
beams, stones, pipe, metal and 
wire. He was illuminated by a 
roaring glow from above him and 
fitful flames around him. His 
clothes were on fire and the tat- 
tooing was livid on his face. He 

120 



moved feebly, like a bewildered 
animal in a maze. 

“My God!” Y’ang- Yeovil ex- 
claimed. “The Burning Man!” 
“What?” 

“The horror I saw on the Span- 
ish Stairs. Never mind that now. 
What can we do?” 

“Go in, of course.” 

A brilliant white gob of copper 
suddenly oozed down close to 
Foyle and splashed ten feet be- 
low him. It was followed by a 
second, a third, a slow, steady 
stream. A pool began to form. 
Dagenham and Y’ang-Yeovil 
sealed the faceplates of their 
armor and crawled through the 
break in the septum. After three 
minutes of agonized struggling, 
they realized that they could not 
get through the labyrinth to 
Foyle. It was locked to the out- 
side, but not from the inside. 
Dagenham and Y’ang - Y eovil 
backed up to confer. 

“We can’t get to him,” Dagen- 
ham shouted, “but he can get out.” 
“How? He can’t jaunte, obvi- 
ously, or he wouldn’t be here.” 
“No, he can climb. Look. He 
goes left, then up, reverses, makes 
a turn along that beam, slides 
under it and pushes through that 
tangle of wire. The wire can’t be 
pushed in, which is why we can’t 
get to him, but it can push out, 
which is how he can get out. It’s 
a one-way door.” 

The pool of molten copper 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



crept up toward Foyle. 

“If he doesn’t get out soon, he’ll 
be roasted alive.” 

“We’ll have to talk him out — 
tell him what to do.” 

The men began shouting: 
“Foyle! Foyle! Foyle!” 

^ burning man in the maze 

continued to move feebly. 
The downpour of sizzling copper 
increased. 

“Foyle! Turn left. Can you 
hear me? Foyle! Turn left and 
climb up. You can get out if 
you’ll listen to me. Turn left and 
climb up. Then— Foyle!” 

“He’s not listening. Foyle! 
Gully Foyle! Can you hear us?” 
“Send for Jiz. Maybe he’ll lis- 
ten to her.” 

“No, get Robin. She’ll telesend. 
He’ll have to listen.” 

“But will she do it? Save him 
of all people?” 

“She’ll have to. This is bigger 
than hatred. It’s the biggest 
damned thing the world’s ever en- 
countered. I’ll get her.” Y’ang- 
Yeovil started to crawl out. 

Dagenham stopped him. “Wait, 
Yeo. Look at him. He’s flicker- 
ing.” 

“Flickering?” 

“Look! He’s — blinking like a 
glowworm. Watch! Now you see 
him and now you don’t.” 

The figure of Foyle was ap- 
pearing, disappearing and reap- 
pearing in rapid succession, like a 



firefly caught in a flaming net. 

“What’s he doing now? What’s 
he trying to do? What’s happen- 
ing?” 

* * * 

He was trying to escape. Like 
some seabird caught in the blaz- 
ing brazier of a naked beacon 
fire, he was beating about in a 
frenzy — a blackened, burning 
creature, dashing himself against 
the unknown. 

Sound came as sight to him, as 
light in strange patterns. He saw 
the sound of his shouted name in 
vivid rhythms: 

F OYL E FOYLE F OYL E 
FOYLE F OYL E F OYL E 
F OYL E F OYL E F OYL E 

Motion came as sound to him. 
He heard the writhing of the 
flames; he heard the swirls of 
smoke; he heard the flickering, 
jeering shadows ... all speaking 
deafeningly in strange tongues: 

“BURUU GYARR?” the steam 
asked. 

“Asha. Asha, rit-kit-dit-zit 
m’gid,” the quick shadows an- 
swered. 

“Ohhh. Ahhh. Heee,” the heat 
ripples clamored. 

Even the flames on his own 
clothes roared gibberish in his 
ears. “MANTERGEISTMANN!” 
they bellowed. 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



121 



Color was pain to him . . . heat, 
cold, pressure; sensations of intol- 
erable heights and plunging 
depths, of tremendous accelera- 
tions and crushing compressions: 




m 



OALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



>Ui 



Touch was taste to him . . . the 
feel of wood was acrid and chalky 
in his mouth, metal was salt, stone 
tasted sour-sweet to the touch of 
his fingers, and the feel of glass 
cloyed his palate like over-rich 
pastry. 

C MELL was touch . . . hot stone 
^ smelled like velvet caressing 
his cheek. 

Smoke and ash were harsh 
tweeds rasping his skin, almost 
the feel of wet canvas. Molten 
metal smelled like blows hammer- 
ing his heart, and the ionization 
of the PyrE explosion filled the 
air with ozone that smelled like 
water trickling ticklingly through 
his fingers. 

He was not blind, not deaf, not 
senseless. Sensation came to him, 
but filtered through a nervous 
system twisted and short-circuited 
by the shock of the PyrE concus- 
sion. 

He was suffering from synes- 
thesia, that rare condition in 
which perception receives mes- 
sages from the objective world 
and relays these messages to the 
brain, but there in the brain the 
sensory perceptions are confused 
with one another. So, in Foyle, 
sound registered as sight, motion 
registered as sound, colors be- 
came pain sensations, touch be- 
came taste, and smell became 
touch. 

He was not only trapped 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



within the labyrinth of the in- 
ferno under Old St. Pat’s; he was 
trapped in the kaleidoscope of 
his own cross-senses. 

Again desperate, on the ghastly 
verge of extinction, he abandoned 
all disciplines and habits of liv- 
ing; or, perhaps, they were 
stripped from him. He reverted 
from a conditioned product of 
environment and experience to an 
inchoate creature craving escape 
and survival and exercising every 
power it possessed. And again the 
miracle of two years ago took 
place. The undivided energy of 
an entire human organism, of 
every cell, fiber, nerve and mus- 
cle empowered that craving, and 
again Foyle space-jaunted. 

He went hurtling along the 
geodesical space-lines of the curv- 
ing universe at the speed of 
thought, far exceeding that of 
light. 

His spatial velocity was so 
frightful that his time-axis was 
twisted from the vertical line 
drawn from the Past through 
Now to the Future. He went flick- 
ering along the new near-horizon- 
tal axis, this new space-time geo- 
desic, driven by the miracle of a 
human mind no longer inhibited 
by gravity-bound concepts of the 
imfxjssible. 

Again he achieved what Hel- 
mut Grant and Enzio Dandridge 
and scores of other experimenters 
had failed to do, because his blind 

123 



panic forced him to abandon the 
spatio-temporal inhibitions that 
had defeated previous attempts. 
He did not jaunte to Elsewhere, 
but to Elsewhen. 

But most important, the fourth- 
dimensional awareness, the com- 
plete picture of the Arrow of 
Time and his position on it which 
is born in every man, but deeply 
submerged by the trivia of living, 
was in Foyle close to the surface. 
He jaunted along the space-time 
geodesics to Elsewheres and Else- 
whens, translating “i,” the square 
root of minm one, from an imagi- 
nary number into reality by an 
unreasoning act of blind imagi- 
nation. 

He jaimted. 

He jaunted back through time 
to his past. He became the Burn- 
ing Man who had inspired him- 
self with terror and perplexity on 
the beach in Australia, in a 
quack’s office in Shanghai, on the 
Spanish Stairs in Rome, on the 
Moon, in the Skoptsy Colony on 
Mars. He jaunted back through 
time, revisiting the savage battles 
that he himself had fought in 
Gully Foyle’s tiger hunt for venge- 
ance. His flaming appearances 
were sometimes noted, other 
times not. 

He jaunted. 

TTE WAS aboard Nomad, drift- 
ing in the empty frost of 
space. 

124 



He stood in the door to no- 
where. 

The cold was the taste of lem- 
ons and the vacuum was a rake 
of talons on his skin. The Sun and 
the stars were a shaking ague that 
racked his bones. 

“GLOMMHA FREDNIS!” mo- 
tion roared in his ears. 

It was a figure with its back to 
him, vanishing down the corridor; 
a figure with a copper cauldron of 
provisions over its shoulder; a fig- 
ure darting, floating, squirming 
through free fall. It was Gully 
Foyle. 

“MEEHAT JESSROT,” the 
sight of his motion bellowed in 
deafening capital letters. 

“Aha! Oh-ho! M’git not to kak,” 
the flicker of light and shade an- 
swered. 

“Oooooooh? Soooooo?” the 
whirling raffle of debris in his 
wake murmured. 

The lemon taste in his mouth 
became unbearable. The rake of 
talons on his skin was tearing 
torture. 

He jaunted. 

He reappeared in the furnace 
beneath Old St. Pat’s less than a 
second after he had disappeared 
from there. He was drawn, as the 
seabird is drawn again and again 
to the flames from which it is 
struggling to escape. He endured 
the roaring torture for only an- 
other moment. 

He jaunted. 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



He was in the depths of Gouf- 
fre Martel. 

The velvet black darkness was 
bliss, paradise, euphoria. 

“Ah!” he cried in relief. 

“AH!” came the echo of his 
voice, and the sound was trans- 
lated into a blinding pattern of 
light. 

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH 

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA 

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH 

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA 

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH 

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA 

The burning man winced. 
“Stop!” he called, blinded by the 
noise. 

StOpStOpStOp 

OpStOpStOpStOp 

StOpStOpStOpStOp 

OpStOpStOpStOpStOp 

OpStOpStOpStOpSt 

, OpStOpStOpStOp 
OpStOpStOpSt 



A distant clatter of steps came 
to his eyes in soft patterns of ver- 
tical borealis streamers: 

c c c c c c 

111111 
a a a a a a 

t t t t t t 

t t t t t t 

8 e e e e e 

r r r r r r 

T 

H E 

E M A 
R A S 

EC H 
0 
U 

T LIKE A 
Z 
I 

6 

Z 

A 

G OF L 
I 
G 
H 
T 
N 
I 
N 
G 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



125 




It was the search party from 
the Gouffre Martel hospital, 
tracking Foyle and Jisbella Mc- 
Queen by geophone. The burning 
man disappeared, but not before 
he had unwittingly decoyed the 
searchers from the trail of the 
vanished fugitives. 

He was back under Old St. 
Pat’s, reappearing only an instant 
after his last disappearance. His 
wild beatings into the unknown 
sent him stumbling up geodesic 
space-time lines that inevitably 
brought him back to the Now he 
was trying to escape; for in the 
inverted saddle-curve of space- 
time, his Now was the deepest de- 
pression in the curve. 

He could drive himself up, up, 
up the geodesic lines into the past 
or future, but inevitably he must 
fall back into his own Now, like 

126 



a thrown ball hurled up the slop- 
ing walls of an infinite pit, to 
land, hang poised for a moment, 
and then roll back into the 
depths. 

But still he beat into the un- 
known in his desperation. 

Again he jaunted. 

He was on Jervis beach on the 
Australian coast. 

The motion of the surf was 
bawling: “LOGGERMIST CRO- 
TEHAVEN!” 

The churning of the surf 
blinded him with the lights of bat- 
teries of footlights: 

9j( ije ^ 3|e ){( ifc ife ^ 

>!c 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



Gully Foyle and Robin 
Wednesbury stood before him. 
The body of a man lay on the 
sand, which felt like vinegar on 
the burning man’s tongue. The 
wind brushing his fact tasted like 
brown paper. 

' Foyle opened his mouth and 
exclaimed. The sound came out 
in burning, babbling, burbling 
star-bubbles. 

Foyle took a step. “GRASH?” 
the motion blared. 

The deafened burning man 
jaunted. 

He was in the office of Dr. Ser- 
gei Orel in Shanghai. 

Foyle was again before him, 
speaking in light patterns: 

WAY WAY WAY 

HRO HRO HRO 

OEU OEU OEU 

He flickered back to the agony 
of Old St. Pat’s and jaunted 
again. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
X X 

X HE WAS ON THE BRAW- X 
X LING SPANISH STAIRS. X 
X HE WAS ON THE BRAW- X 
X LING SPANISH STAIRS. X 
X HE WAS ON THE BRAW- X 
X LING SPANISH STAIRS. X 
X HE WAS ON THE BRAW- X 
X LING SPANISH STAIRS. X 
X X 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 



The burning man jaunted. 

It was cold again, with the 
taste of lemons, and vacuum 
raked his skin with imspeakable 
talons. 

He was peering in pain through 
the porthole of a silvery yawl. 
The jagged mountains of the 
Moon towered in the background. 
Through the porthole, he could 
see the jangling racket of blood- 
pumps and oxygen-pumps and 
hear the uproar of the motion 
Gully Foyle made toward him. 
The clawing of the vacuum 
caught his throat in an agonizing 
grip. 

The geodesic lines of space- 
time rolled him back to Now un- 
der Old St. Pat’s, where less than 
two seconds had elapsed since he 
first began his frenzied struggle. 
Once more, like a burning spear, 
he hurled himself into the un- 
known. 

He was in the Skoptsy Cata- 
comb on Mars. The white slug 
that was Lindsey Joyce was 
writhing in shrill terror before 
him. 

“NO! NO! NO!” her motion 
screamed. “DON’T HURT ME. 
DON’T KILL ME. PLEASE . . . 
PLEASE . . . PLEASE DON’J 
HURT ME , . .” 

The burning man opened his 
tiger mouth and laughed. “She 
hurts,” he said. The sound of his 
voice burned his eyes with flam- 
ing gravel. 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



127 



s s s 

H H H 

E E E 

H H H 

U U U 

R R R 

T T T 

S 

H H H 

E E E 

H H H 

U U U 

R R R 

T T T 

S S S 



“Who are you?” Foyle whis- 
pered. 



WWVWVraWWWWWWWTOVVTO 

HHHHHHHHHHHHH 

HHHHH 

0000000000000 

00000 

AREAREAREAREAREARE 

AREAREAREAREAREARE 

AREAREAREAREAREARE 

YYYYYYYYYYYYY 

YYYYY 

0000000000000 

00000 

uuuuuuuuuuuuu 

uuuuu 



The burning man winced. “Too 
bright,” he said. “Less light.” 



Foyle took a step forward. 
“BLAA-GAA-DAA-MAWW!” the 
motion roared. 

The burning man clapped his 
hands over his ears in agony. 
“Too loud! Don’t move so loud!” 
The writhing Skoptsy’s motion 
was still screaming, beseeching; 
“DON’T HURT ME. DON’T 
HURT ME.” “ 

The burning man laughed 
again. She was mute to normal 
men, but to his freak crossed 
senses, her meaning was clear. 
“Listen to her. She’s screaming. 
Begging. She doesn’t want to die. 
She doesn’t want to be hurt. Lis- 
ten to her.” 

“IT WAS OLIVIA PRES- 
TEIGN GAVE THE ORDER. 
NOT ME. DON’T HURT ME. 
OLIVIA PRESTEIGN.” 

“She’s telling who gave the or- 
der. Can’t you hear? Listen with 
your eyes. She says Olivia.” 

WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? 

WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? 

WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? 

WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? 

WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? 

The checkerboard glitter of 
Foyle’s question was too much 
for him. The Burning Man inter- 
preted the Skoptsy’s agony again. 



128 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



“She says Olivia. Olivia Pres- 
teign. Olivia Presteign. Olivia 
Presteign.” 

He jaunted. 



F oyle fell back into the pit 
under Old St. Pat’s and sud- 



denly his confusion and despair 
told him he was dead. This was 
the finish of Gully Foyle. This 
was eternity and hell was real. 
What he had seen was the past 
passing before his crumbling 
senses in the final moment of 
death. What he was enduring, he 
must endure through all time. He 
was dead. He knew he was dead. 

He refused to submit to eter- 
nity. 

He beat again into the un- 
known. 

The burning man jaunted. 

He was in a scintillating mist 







a snowflake cluster of 






shower of liquid 




diamonds. There was the touch of 
butterfly wings on his skin 



was the taste of a strand 
of cool pearls in his mouth 




His crossed kaleidoscopic senses 
could not tell him where he was, 
but he knew he wanted to remain 
in this Nowhere forever. 

“Hello, Gully." 

“Who’s that?” 

“This is Robin.” 

“Robin?” 

“Robin Wednesbury that was.” 
“That was?” 

“Robin Yeovil that is.” 

“I don’t understand. Am I 
dead?” 

“No, Gully.” 

“Where am I?” 

“A long, long way from Old St. 
Pat’s.” 

“But where?” 

“I can’t take the time to ex- 
plain, Gully. Yot/ve only got a 
tew moments here.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you haven’t learned 
how to jaunte through space-time 
yet. You’ve got to go back and 
learn.” 

“But I do know. I must know. 
Sheffield said I space-jaunted to 
Nomad — six hundred thousand 
miles.” 

“That was an accident then. 
Gully, and yot^ll do it again — 
after you teach yourself. But 
you’re not doing it now. You don’t 
know how to hold on yet — how 
to turn any Now into reality. 
You’ll tumble back into Old St. 
Pat’s in a moment.” 

“Robin, I’ve just remembered. 
I have bad news for you.” 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



129 




“/ know, Gully." 

“Your mother and sisters are 
dead.” 

“I’ve known for a long time, 
Gully.” 

“How long?” 

“For thirty years.” 

“That’s impossible.” 

“No, it isn’t. This is a long, long 
way irom Old St. Pafs. I’ve been 
waiting to tell you how to save 
your sell irom the fire. Gully. Will 
you listen?” 

“I’m not dead?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll listen.” 

“Your senses are all confused. 
It’ll pass soon, but I won’t give 
the directions in left and right or 
up and down. I’ll tell you what 
you can understand now.” 

“Why are you helping me— 
after what I’ve done .to you?” 
“That’s all forgiven and forgot- 
ten, Gully. Now listen to me. 
When you get back to Old St. 
Pafs, turn around until yotfre 
facing the loudest shadows. Got 
that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Go toward the noise until you 
feel a deep prickling on your skin. 
Then stop.” 

“Then stop.” 

“Make a half turn into com- 
pression and a feeling of falling. 
Follow that.” 

“Follow that.” 

“Yot/11 pass through a solid 
sheet of light and come to the 

130 




GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 





THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



131 



taste of quimne. Thafs really a 
mass of wire. Push straight 
through the quinine until you see 
something that sounds like trip- 
hammers. Yot/11 be safe.” 

“How do you know all this, 
Robin?” 

“I’ve been briefed by an expert, 
Gully.” There was the sensation 
of laughter. “Yot/11 be falling 
back into the past any moment 
now. Peter and Saul are here. 
They say au revoir and good luck. 
And Jiz Dagenham, too. Good 
luck. Gully dear.” 

“The past? This is the future?” 
“Yes, Gully.” 

“Am I here? Is Olivia — ?” 

And then he was tumbling 
down, down, down the space-time 
lines back into the dreadful pit 
of Now. 

16 

XT IS senses imcrossed in the 
ivory-and-gold Star Cham- 
ber of Castle Presteign. Sight be- 
came sight and he saw the high 
mirrors and stained-glass win- 
dows; the gold-tooled library with 
android librarian on library lad- 
der. Sound became sound and he 
heard the android secretary tap- 
ping the manual bead-recorder at 
the Louis Quinze desk. Taste be- 
came taste as he sipped the 
cognac that the robot bartender 
handed him. 



He knew he was at bay, faced 
with the decision of his life. He 
ignored his enemies and exam- 
ined the perpetual friendly smile 
carved in the robot face of the 
bartender. 

“Thank you,” Foyle said. 

“My pleasure, sir,” the robot re- 
plied and awaited its next cue. 

“Nice day,” Foyle remarked. 

“Always a lovely day some- 
where, sir,” the robot beamed. 

“Awful day,” Foyle said. 

“Always a lovely day some- 
where, sir,” the robot repeated. 

“Day,” Foyle said. 

“Always a lovely day some- 
where, sir,” the robot said again. 

Foyle turned to the others. 
“That’s me,” he said, motioning to 
the robot. “That’s all of us. We 
prattle about free will, but we’re 
nothing but response, mechanical 
reaction in prescribed grooves. So 
— here I am, waiting to respond. 
Press the buttons and I’ll jump.” 
He aped the canned voice of the 
robot. “My pleasure to serve, sir.” 
Suddenly his tone lashed them. 
“What do you want?” 

They stirred with uneasy pur- 
pose. Foyle was burned, beaten, 
chastened — and yet he was tak- 
ing control of all of them. 

“We’ll stipulate the threats,” 
Foyle said. “I’m to be hanged, 
ripped, shredded, tortured in hell 
if I don’t — if I don’t what? What 
do you want?” 

“I want my property,” Pres- 



132 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



teign said, smiling coldly. 

“Eighteen and some odd pounds 
of PyrE. Yes. What do you of- 
fer?” 

“I make no offer, sir. I demand 
what is mine.” 

Y’ang-Yeovil and Dagenham 
began to speak. Foyle silenced 
them. “One button at a time, gen- 
tlemen. Presteign is trying to 
make me jump at present.” He 
turned to Presteign. “Press harder, 
blood and money, or find another 
button. Who are you to make de- 
mands now?” 

Presteign tightened his lips. 
“The law-” 

“What? Threats?” Foyle 
laughed. “Am I to be frightened 
into anything? Don’t be an imbe- 
cile. Speak to me the way you 
did New Year’s Eve, Presteign — 
without mercy, without forgive- 
ness, without hypocrisy.” 

"pRESTEIGN bowed, took a 
breath and ceased to smile. “I 
offer you power,” he said. “Adop- 
tion as my heir, partnership in 
Presteign Enterprises, the chief- 
tainship of clan and sept. To- 
gether we can own the world — 
the Solar System.” 

“With PyrE?” 

“Yes.” 

“Your proposal is noted and 
declined. Will you offer your 
daughter?” 

“Olivia?” Presteign choked and 
clenched his fists. 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



“Yes, Olivia. Where is she?” 
“You scum!” Presteign cried. 
“Filth! Common thief! You dare 
to-” 

‘Will you offer your daughter 
for the PyrE?” 

“Yes,” Presteign answered, 
barely audible. 

Foyle turned to Dagenham. 
“Press your button, death’s-head.” 
“If the discussion’s to be con- 
ducted on this level—” Dagen- 
ham rapped out. 

“It is. Without mercy, without 
forgiveness, without hypocrisy. 
What do you offer?” 

“Glory.” 

“Ah?” 

“We can’t offer money or 
power. We can offer honor. Gully 
Foyle, the man who saved the 
Inner Planets from annihilation. 
We can offer security. We’ll wipe 
out your criminal record, give you 
an honored name, guarantee a 
niche in the hall of fame.” 

“No,” Jisbella McQueen cut in 
sharply. “Don’t accept. If you 
want to be a savior, destroy the 
secret. Don’t give PyrE to any- 
one.” 

“What is PyrE?” 

“Quiet!” Dagenham snapped. 
“It’s a thermo-nuclear explosive 
that’s detonated by thought alone 
— by psychokinesis,” Jisbella said. 
“What thought?” 

“The desire of anyone to deto- 
nate it, directed at it. That brings 
it to critical mass if it’s not insu- 

133 



lated by Inert Lead Isomer.” 

“I told you to be quiet,” Dagen- 
ham growled. 

“If we’re all to have a chance 
at him, I want mine.” 

“This is bigger than idealism.” 
“Nothing’s bigger than ideal- 
ism.” 

“Foyle’s secret is,” Y’ang-Yeo- 
vil murmured. “I know how rela- 
tively unimportant PyrE is just 
now.” He smiled at Foyle. “Shef- 
field’s law assistant overheard 
part of your little discussion in 
Old St. Pat’s. We know about the 
space- j aunting.” 

HERE was a sudden hush. 
“Space - jaunting!” Dagen- 
ham exclaimed. “Impossible! You 
don’t mean it!” 

“I do mean it. Foyle’s demon- 
strated that space-j aunting is not 
impossible. He jaunted six hun- 
dred thousand miles from an O.S. 
raider to the wreck of the Nomad. 
As I said, this is far bigger than 
PyrE. I should like to discuss 
that matter first.” 

“Everyone’s been telling what 
they want,” Robin Wednesbury 
said slowly. “What do you want. 
Gully Foyle?” 

“Thank you,” Foyle answered. 
“I want to be punished.” 

“What?” 

“I want to be purged,” he said 
in a suffocated voice. The stig- 
mata began to appear on his ban- 
daged face. “I want to pay for 

134 



what I’ve done and settle the ac- 
count. I want to go back to Gouf- 
fre Martel. I want a lobo, if I 
deserve it — and I know I do. I 
want — ” 

“You want escape,” Dagenham 
interrupted. “There’s no escape.” 
“I want release!” 

“Out of the question,” Y’ang- 
Yeovil said. “There’s too much of 
value locked up in your head to 
be lost by lobotomy.” 

“We’re beyond childish things 
like crime and punishment,” Da- 
genham added. 

“No,” Robin objected. “There 
must always be sin and forgive- 
ness. We’re never beyond that.” 
“Profit and loss, sin and for- 
giveness, idealism and realism.” 
Foyle smiled. “You’re all so sure, 
so simple, so single-minded. I’m 
the only one in doubt. Let’s see 
how sure you really are. You’ll 
give up Olivia, Presteign? To me, 
yes? Will you give her up to the 
law? She’s a killer.” 

Presteign tried to rise, and then 
fell back in his chair. 

“There must be forgiveness, 
Robin? Will you forgive Olivia 
Presteign? She murdered your 
mother and sisters.” 

Robin turned ashen. Y’ang- 
Yeovil tried to protest. 

“The Outer Satellites don’t 
have PyrE, Yeovil. Sheffield re- 
vealed that. Would you use it on 
them anyway? Will you turn my 
name into common anathema — 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




like Lynch and Boycott?” 

Foyle turned to Jisbella. “Will 
your idealism take you back to 
Gouffre Martel to serve out your 
sentence? And you, Dagenham, 
are you willing to give her up? 
Let her go?” 

¥T E LISTENED to the protests 
and watched the confusion 
for a moment, bitter and con- 
strained. 

“This decision is so simple, 
isn’t it? Am I to respect Pres- 
teign’s property rights? The wel- 
fare of the planets? Jisbella’s 
ideals? Dagenham’s realism? Rob- 
in’s conscience? Press the button 
and watch the robot jump. But 
I’m not a robot. I’m a freak of 
the Universe — a thinking animal 
— and I’m trying to think my way 
through this morass. Am I to turn 
PyrE over to the world and let it 
destroy itself? Am I to teach the 
world how to space-jaunte and let 
us spread our freak show from 
galaxy to galaxy through all the 
Universe? What’s the answer?” 
The bartender robot hurled its 
mixing glass across the room with 
a resounding crash. In the amazed 
silence that followed, Dagenham 
grunted: “Damn! My radioactiv- 
it3^s disrupted your servants 
again, Presteign.” 

“The answer is yes,” the robot 
said, quite distinctly. 

“What?” Foyle asked, taken 
aback. 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



“The answer to your question 
is yes.” 

“Thank you,” Foyle said. 

“My pleasure, sir,” the robot re- 
sponded. “A man is a member of 
society first and an individual sec- 
ond. You must go along with so- 
ciety, whether it chooses destruc- 
tion or not.” 

“Completely haywire,” Dagen- 
ham said impatiently. “Switch it 
off, Presteign.” 

“Wait,” Foyle commanded. He 
looked at the beaming grin en- 
graved in the steel robot face. 
“But society can be so stupid, so 
confused.” 

“Yes, sir, but you must teach, 
not dictate. You must teach so- 
ciety.” 

“To space-jaunte? Why? Why 
reach out to the stars and ga- 
laxies? What for?” 

“Because you’re alive, sir. You 
might as well ask: why is life? 
Don’t ask about it. Live it.” 

“Quite mad,” Dagenham 
snapped. 

“But fascinating,” Y’ang-Yeovil 
murmured. 

“There’s got to be more to life 
than just living,” Foyle said to 
the robot. 

“Then find it for yourself, sir. 
Don’t ask the world to stop mov- 
ing because you have doubts.” 

“Why can’t we all move for- 
ward together?” 

“Because you’re all different. 
Some must lead, and hope that 

135 



the rest will eventually follow.” 
“Who leads?” 

“The men who must — driven 
men, compelled men.” 

“Freak men.” 

“You’re all freaks, sir. But you 
always have been. Life is a freak. 
That’s its hope and glory.” 
“Thank you very much.” 

“My pleasure, sir.” 

“You’ve saved the day.” 
“Always a lovely day some- 
where, sir,” the robot beamed. 
Then it fizzed, jangled and col- 
lapsed. 

rOYLE turned on the others. 

“That thing’s right and you’re 
wrong. Who are we, any of us, to 
make a decision for mankind? 
Let mankind know and decide for 
itself. Come to Old St. Pat’s.” 

He jaunted; they followed. The 
square block was still cordoned 
and by now an enormous crowd 
had gathered. So many of the 
rash and curious were jaunting 
into the smoking ruins that the 
police had set up a protective 
induction field to keep them out. 
Even so, urchins, curio-seekers 
and irresponsibles attempted to 
jaunte into the wreckage, only to 
be burned by the induction field 
and depart, squawking. 

At a signal from Y’ang-Yeovil, 
the field was turned off. Foyle 
went through the hot rubble to 
the east wall of the cathedral, 
which stood to a height of fifteen 



feet. He felt the smoking stones, 
pressed and levered. There came 
a grinding grumble and a three- 
by -five-foot section jarred open 
and then stuck. 

Foyle gripped it and pulled. 
The section trembled; then the 
roasted hinges collapsed and the 
stone panel crumbled. 

Two centuries before, when or- 
ganized religion had been abol- 
ished and orthodox worshipers of 
all faiths had been driven under- 
ground, some devout souls had 
constructed this secret niche in 
Old St. Pat’s and turned it into an 




136 



GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 




altar. The gold of the crucifix still 
shone with the brilliance of eter- 
nal faith. At the foot of the cross 
rested a small black box of Inert 
Lead Isomer. 

“Is this a sign?” Foyle panted. 
“Is this the answer I want?” 

He snatched the heavy safe be- 
fore any could seize it. He jaunted 
a hundred yards to the remnants 
of the cathedral steps facing Fifth 
Avenue. There he opened the safe 
in full view of the gaping crowds. 
A shout of consternation went up 
from the Intelligence crews who 
knew its contents. 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



137 



“Foyle!” Dagenham cried. 

“For God’s sake, Foyle!” Y’ang- 
Yeovil begged. 

Foyle withdrew a slug of PyrE, 
the color of iodine crystals, the 
size of a cigarette — one pound of 
trans-Plutonian isotopes in solid 
solution. 

“PyrE!” he roared to the mob. 
“Take it! Keep it. It’s your fu- 
ture. PyrE!” He hurled the slug 
into the crowd and yelled over his 
shoulder: “SanFran. Russian Hill 
stage.” 

He jaunted St. Louis-Denver to 
San Francisco, arriving at the 
Russian Hill stage, where it was 
four in the afternoon and the 
streets were bustling with late- 
shopper jaunters. 

“PyrE!” Foyle bellowed. His 
devil-face glowed blood red. He 
was an appalling sight. “PyrE. It’s 
danger. It’s death. It’s yours. 
Make them tell you what it is. 
Nome!” he called to his pursuit 
as it arrived, and jaunted. 

TT WAS lunch hour in Nome 
and the lumberjacks jaunting 
down from the sawmills for their 
beefsteak and beer were startled 
by the tiger-faced man who 
hurled a one-pound slug of iodine- 
colored alloy into their midst and 
shouted in the gutter tongue: 
“PyrE! You hear me, man? You 
listen a me, you. PyrE is filthy 
death for us. All a us! Grab no 
guesses, you. Make ’em tell you 

138 



about PyrE, is all! You hear mo?” 

To Dagenham, Y’ang-Yeovil 
and others jaunting in after him, 
as always, seconds too late, he 
shouted: “Tokyo. Imperial stage!” 
He disappeared a split-second be- 
fore their shots reached him. 

It was nine o’clock of a crisp, 
winy morning in Tokyo and the 
morning rush-hour crowd milling 
around the Imperial stage along- 
side the carp ponds was paralyzed 
by a tiger-faced Samurai who ap- 
peared and hurled a slug of curi- 
ous metal and unforgettable 
warnings and admonitions at 
them. 

Foyle continued to Bangkok 
where it was pouring rain, and 
Delhi where a monsoon raged — 
always pursued in his mad-dog 
course. In Baghdad, it was three 
in the morning and the nightclub 
crowd and pub-crawlers who 
stayed a perpetual half hour 
ahead of closing time around the 
world cheered him alcoholically. 
In Paris and again in London, it 
was midnight and the mobs on 
the Champs Elysees and in Picca- 
dilly Circus were galvanized by 
Foyle’s appearance and passion- 
ate exhortation. 

Having led his pursuers three- 
quarters of the way around the 
world in fifty minutes, Foyle per- 
mitted them to overtake him in 
London. He let them kno.ck him 
down, take the ILI safe from his 
arms, count the remaining slugs 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



of PyrE^ and slam the safe shut. 

“There’s enough left for a war. 
Plenty left for destruction . . . 
annihilation ... if you dare.” 
Foyle was laughing and sobbing 
in hysterical triumph. “Millions 
for defense, but not one cent for 
survival.” 

“D’you realize what you’ve 
done, you damned killer?” Dagen- 
ham shouted. 

“I know what I’ve done.” 

“Nine pounds of PyrE scat- 
tered around the world! One 
thought and we’ll — How can we 
get it back without telling them 
the truth? Yeo, keep that crowd 
back. Don’t let them hear this.” 
“Impossible.” 

“Then let’s jaunte.” 

“No,” Foyle roared. “Let them 
hear this. Let them hear every- 
thing.” • 

“You’re insane, man. You’ve 
handed a loaded gun to children.” 
“Stop treating them like chil- 
dren and they’ll stop behaving 
like children. Who the hell are 
you to play monitor?” 

“What are you talking about?” 
“Stop treating them like chil- 
dren. Explain the loaded gun to 
them. Bring it all out into the 
open.” 

'C’OYLE laughed savagely. “I’ve 
ended the last Star Chamber 
Conference in the world. No more 
secrets from now on. No more 
telling the children what’s best 



for them to know. Let ’em all 
grow up. It’s about time.” 

“Christ, he is insane.” 

“Am I? I’ve handed life and 
death back to the people who do 
the living and dying. They’ve 
been whipped and led long 
enough by driven men like us — 
compulsive men — tiger men who 
can’t help lashing the* world be- 
fore them. We’re all tigers, the 
three of us, but who the hell are 
we to make decisions for the 
world just because we’re compul- 
sive? Let the world make its own 
choice between life and death. 
Why should we be saddled with 
the responsibility?” 

“We’re not saddled,” Y”ang- 
Yeovil said quietly. “We’re forced 
to seize the responsibility that the 
average man shirks.” 

“Then let him stop shirking it. 
Let him stop tossing his duty and 
guilt onto the shoulders of the 
first freak who comes along grab- 
bing at it. Are we to be scape- 
goats for the world forever?” 
“Damn you!” Dagenham raged. 
“Don’t you realize that you can’t 
trust people? They don’t know 
enough for their own good.” 
“Then let them learn or die. 
We’re all in this together. Let’s 
live together or die together.” 
“D’you want to die because of 
their ignorance? You’ve got to fig- 
ure out how we can get those 
slugs back without blowing every- 
thing wide open.” 



THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



139 



“No. I was one of them before 
I turned tiger. They can all turn 
uncommon if they’re kicked 
awake the way I was.” 

Foyle shook himself and 
abruptly jaunted to the bronze 
head of Eros, fifty feet above the 
counter of Piccadilly Circus. He 
perched precariously and bawled: 
“Listen a me, all you! Listen, 
man! Gonna sermonize, me. Dig 
this, you!” 

He was answered with a roar. 

“You pigs, yoiL You goof like 
pigs, is all. You got the most in 
you and you use the least. You 
hear me, you? Got a million in you 
and spend pennies. Got a genius 
in you and think crazies. Got a 
heart in you and feel empties. All 
a you — ” 

He was jeered. He continued 
with the hysterical passion of the 
possessed. 

“Take a war to make you 
spend. Take a jam to make you 
think. Take a challenge to make 
you great. Rest of the time you 
sit around lazy, you. Pigs, you! 
All right, damn you! I challenge 
you, me. Die or live and be great. 
Blow yourselves to Christ gone or 
come and find me. Gully Foyle, 
and I make you men. I make you 
great. I give you the stars.” 

He disappeared. 

TJE JAUNTED up the geo- 
■■■■•• desic lines of space-time to 
an Elsewhere and an Elsewhen. 

140 



He arrived in chaos. He hung in 
a precarious para-Now for a mo- 
ment and then tumbled back into 
chaos. 

“It can be done,” he thought. 
“It must be done.” 

He jaunted again, a burning 
spear flung from unknown into 
unknown, and again he tumbled 
back into a chaos of para-space 
and para-time. He was lost in No- 
where. 

“I believe,” he thought. “I have 
faith.” 

He jaimted again and failed 
again. 

“Faith in what?” he asked him- 
self, adrift in limbo. 

“Faith in faith,” he answered 
himself. “It isn’t necessary to have 
something to believe in. It’s only 
necessary to believe that some- 
where there’s something worthy 
of belief.” 

He jaunted for the last time 
and the power of his willingness 
to believe transformed the para- 
Now for his random destination 
into a real . . . 

* * * 

NOW: Rigel in Orion, burning 
blue-white, five hundred and 
forty light-years from Earth, ten 
thousand times more luminous 
than the Sun, a cauldron of 
energy circled by thirty-seven 
massive planets . . . 

Foyle hung, freezing and suffo- 
cating in space, face to face with 
the incredible destiny in which 

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION 



he believed, but which was still 
inconceivable. He hung in space 
for a blinding moment, as help- 
less, as amazed, and yet as in- 
evitable as the first gilled crea- 
ture to come out of the sea and 
hang gulping on a primeval beach 
in the dawn-history of life on 
Elarth. 

He space-jaunted, turning para- 
Now into . . . 

% 4c 

NOW; Vega in Lyra, an AO 
star twenty-six light-years from 
Earth, burning bluer than Rigel, 
planetless, but circled by swarms 
of blazing comets whose gaseous 
tails scintillated across the blue- 
black firmament . . . 

* * * 

And again he turned now into 
NOW: Canopus, yellow as the 
Sun, gigantic, thimderous in the 
silent wastes of space at last in- 
vaded by a creature that once 
was gilled. The creature hung 
gulping on the beach of the Uni- 
verse, nearer death than life, 
nearer the future than the past, 
ten leagues beyond the wide 
world’s end. It wondered at the 
masses of dust, meteors and 
motes that girdled Canopus in a 
broad flat ring like the rings of 
Saturn and of the breadth of Sa- 
turn’s orbit . . . 

4c 4c <c 

NOW; Aldebaran in Taurus, a 
monstrous red star of a pair of 
stars whose sixteen planets wove 

THE STARS MY DESTINATION 



high velocity ellipses around their 
gyrating parents. He was hurling 
himself through space-time with 
growing assurance . . . 

4c 4c 4c 

NOW: Antares, an Ml red giant, 
paired like Aldebaran, two hun- 
dred and fifty light-years from 
Earth, circled by two hundred 
and fifty planetoids of the size of 
Mercury, of the climate of 

Eden . . . 

4c 4c 4c 

AND LASTLY NOW . . . 

He was drawn to the womb of 
his birth. He returned to the No- 
mad, now welded into the mass 
of the Sargasso Asteroid, home of 
the lost Scientific People who 
scavenged the spaceways between 
Mars and Jupiter — home of 
J $ seph, who had tattooed Foyle’s 
tiger face and mated him to 
M 9 ira. 

He was back aboard Nomad. 

Gully Foyle is my name 
And Terra is my nation. 

Deep space is my dwelling place, 
The stars my destination. 

^I ^HE girl, M 9 ira, found him in 
his tool locker aboard Nomad, 
curled in a tight fetal ball, his 
face hollow, his eyes burning with 
divine revelation. Although the 
asteroid had long since been re- 
paired and made airtight, Foyle 
still went through the motions of 
the perilous existence that had 

141 



given birth to him years before. 

But now he slept and medi- 
tated, digesting and encompassing 
the magnificence he had learned. 
He awoke from reverie to trance 
and drifted out of the locker, 
passing M 9 ira with blind eyes, 
brushing past the awed girl who 
stepped aside and sank to her 
knees. He wandered through the 
empty passages and returned to 
the womb of the locker. He curled 
up again and was lost. 

She touched him once. He 
made no move. She spoke the 
name that had been emblazoned 
on his face. He made no answer. 
She turned and fled to the inte- 
rior of the asteroid, to the holy of 
holies in which J $ seph reigned. 

“My husband has returned to 
us,” M 9 ira said. 

“Your husband?” 

“The god-man who almost de- 
stroyed us.” 

J S seph’s face darkened with 
anger. “Where is he? Show me!” 
“You will not hurt him?” 

“All debts must be paid. Show 
me. 



J $ seph followed her to the 
locker aboard Nomad and gazed 
intently at Foyle. The anger in 
his face was replaced by wonder. 
He touched Foyle and spoke to 
him. There was still no response. 

“You cannot pimish him,” 
M 9 ira said. “He is dying.” 

“No,” J 5 seph answered qui- 
etly. “He is dreaming. I, a priest, 
know these dreams. Pre'sently he 
will awaken and read to us, his 
people, his thoughts.” 

“And then you will punish him.” 

“He has found it already in 
himself,” J $ seph said. 

He settled down outside the 
locker. 

The girl, M 9 ira, ran up the 
twisted corridors and returned 
moments later with a silver basin 
of warm water and a silver tray 
of food. She bathed Foyle gently 
and set the tray before him as an 
offering. 

Then she settled down along- 
side J $ seph . . . alongside the 
world . . . prepared to await the 
awakening. 

— ALFRED HESTER 



★ ★ ★ ★ ★ 



142 



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(Continued from page 4) 
long before the newsstands get 
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— depend on costly artists who 
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— H. L. GOLD 



144 



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Ifbu Travelled Through Time 
foTasfe mBmOEN LOVE,.. 



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